


Let me tell you a story about a Spaniard named Vazquez

by thegrimmgrimm



Category: Black Sails
Genre: "No-one from nowhere" indeed, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, M/M, Surprise: John Silver is Vazquez, early days so not fully tagged yet, i'm 3 years late to the party please convince me to keep writing this, somehow simultaneously canon compliant and divergent?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23156038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimmgrimm/pseuds/thegrimmgrimm
Summary: "Let me tell you a story about a Spaniard named Vazquez. A few weeks ago he staggers into a tavern in Port Royal. Takes a seat next to an English merchant captain. Vazquez, it turns out, is dying. Bleeding to death from a knife wound to the belly. The knife wound was courtesy of his former employer, La Casa del Contratación, in Seville."Who would know that Vazquez never truly died? That perhaps Captain Parrish needed a little more time than a short chat at a Port Royal Tavern? That perhaps, he had recovered, and lived to see the results of his unheeded warnings, and perhaps even influence them...
Relationships: Billy Bones & John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw & Hal Gates, Captain Flint | James McGraw & John Silver, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 36





	1. A Cook and a Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man named Vazquez staggers into a tavern in Port Royal, and then he staggers out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: for the purposes for the first several chapters, "Silver" as a character refers to the cook from the first episode who first stole the schedule. The character of John Silver is (as you may have guessed) the fabled Spaniard Vazquez.

He was dying, of which he was fairly certain. A grievous wound to the gut, with the burning heat of torn flesh alongside the bone-deep chill of blood loss.

Somehow, he had found himself in Port Royal. The last good-will of his loyal informants pulling strings to get him out of Havana. But from here he was alone.

He stumbled upon a tavern, from the looks of it not of ill-repute, but not somewhere nice enough for Navy-types to be seen in. He wondered to himself whether or not it would be worth paying for a room for the night.

He decided against the idea and instead meandered to the bar. Though he would have had no trouble disguising he accent, he didn't bother here, and ignored the looks he received from the bartender and patrons close-by enough to hear him.

As his drink was poured, he leant heavily against the bar and surveyed the room. Though it swam a little in and out for focus, he was able to paint a fair enough picture of the place.

The clientele here appeared to be mostly sailors, though there may have been some labourers from the island mixed in. Merchant sailors mostly, and possibly some privateers, though it seemed just a little too high-brow for buccaneers and that sort.

The bartender dropped his pint heavily on the bar without a word and the man left a gold ducat in its place, leaving those close-by staring. The man felt the growing weakness in his limbs as he picked up the tanker and took a long draught. It was not good ale, and he knew it would only worsen the growing light-headedness he could feel.

He glanced over at a mostly empty table, save for an unlikely pair of man talking together amicably. One had a proud, smart bearing, and the attitude of a Captain. The other was stout, rough and greasy, with scars up his arms seemingly not from battle. A cook. Ann odd pair, but hardly threatening.

The man lurched forward and fell into a seat near them, startling the two out of their conversation.

" _Lo siento_ ," he wheezed out, hunching over his pint.

"What the fuck is a Spaniard doing in the middle of Port Royal?" The greasy man sneered at him, attempting to look vaguely threatening. His companion looked mildly disapproving at the vulgar language, but just as weary of the unwelcome stranger.

"I have been betrayed," Answered, the Spaniard in question, his vision spinning slightly. "By my brethren, by my country."

The cook scowled, but the other man looked thoughtful.

"Well, that don't tell me nothing-" started the cook angrily, but the Captain held up a hand to stop him.

He eyed the man curiously, taking in the pale, sweaty skin, the unfocused eyes. He seemed to draw conclusions about the man's condition, and perceived no threat, no deception.

"I am sorry to hear that young man. I am Captain Parrish, this here is my ship's cook, Silver." He held out his hand to shake and took the clammy palm of his new acquaintance with a firmness that was not returned.

The Spaniard surveyed him intently, trying to judge his intent, but deciding he did not care. "My name is Vazquez. I come from Havana. I believe I am dying." He gave a grim chuckle at the knowing nod the captain gave, and the confused crease between the cook's brows.

"What happened?" The cook spluttered as the Spaniard downed the rest of his pint.

"Ah, perhaps if you will get me another ale, you will let me tell you a story." He did not know how far he would get into such a story in his state, but something had hardened inside him, and he felt sure that story was something he very much wanted to tell.

He slid over another gold ducat to the cook, who eyed it greedily and hurried to the bar. Vazquez did not follow the movement, but rather took a grip on the edge of the table as his vision swam dangerously.

Parrish called out after the cook. "Silver, get him something to eat, as well." This was acknowledged with a nod.

The Spaniard was steadier when the cook returned, ale in hand, promising food from the kitchen in short order.

"Well?" He urged, leaning forward intently.

"Until very recently I was one of the finest agents of _La Casa del Contratación_ , the finest, if I say so myself, in all of the Americas." He watched the awed reactions of his companions. "Naval security, mostly - plotting courses for important ships, important men, important treasure."

The men's eyes glowed at the thought.

"One particular treasure, has caused me all this grief. The King -my King- wished to send this treasure with the greatest of haste, but against my better judgement. Storm season is approaching, see, and His Majesty wished it delivered before the risk of being dashed by a storm would be too great. But, my friends, but no ship could be spared in such haste to escort this voyage! And I'm sure you yourself are well aware of the threat to any cargo in these waters from those dreadful pirates. But this cargo! Oh, it would be irresistible to such miscreants."

His voice had risen in passion, and he had the sense to quieten as a server approached with a bowl of some hearty soup, and half a loaf of bread. " _Gracias,_ " He breathed, and shot a winning smile to the server, who eyed him cautiously, but was shooed away be his companions.

He dug into the meal, warming his belly, and his bones, but his stomach roiled with it, pain in contention with the small comfort.

Parrish motioned him to go on, and with another draught of ale, and a deep breath, he did just that.

"These warnings I had for the King, his treasure was too vulnerable, too unprotected, and what did he have for me? A knife to my gut!" He drew aside his jacket, almost alarmed himself with the amount of blood seeping through his shirt, through the rough bandage he had managed on his escape voyage.

Parrish gasped, as if he hadn't anticipated something so graphic, even knowing how sickly he had looked. The cook just looked grim, and hungry for more of the tale.

"But too late did I make my final protests, my final stand. I was to go before the courts and profess my part in this foolish voyage! But, too late. I had already betrayed my own judgement and drawn up for the King the course he desired. One no one would know save the captain, and myself. And myself, apparently, quite dispensable."

There was a greedy sheen on the eyes of the cook, but his features spoke of impatience. "But what is it? What is the treasure." He demanded, his voice low and urgent.

Vazquez walked the last steps of his betrayal, looking at these men, gut aching, head spinning, but thoughts clear. " _L'Urca de Lima,_ " His voice quiet, he saw no recognition in these Englishmen's eyes. "It's cargo, gold and jewels from the new world worth over 5 million Spanish dollars, to be delivered His Majesty."

Silver made a choking sound, and Parrish brought a hand to his mouth. The Spaniard just smiled thinly.

"And the course?" The cook asked.

"When I confronted my superiors with the threat of exposing this doomed enterprise, I found the vessel had already set sail, on my plotted course. Nothing to stop it that would not put it in ever more risk. And none left to protest it but myself." He gestured again at his wound, leaving the implications unsaid.

The Spaniard turned back to his meal, letting the story rest in silence between the three of them.

Eventually, the captain spoke up. "Why would you tell us this, for what purpose?"

Vazquez frowned slightly, thoughtful. "I suppose... I want to face betrayal in kind. Perhaps I want my country, my King, to feel what they have made me feel. Or perhaps I just want for my name to be remembered. Who can say?"

"What does it matter, Parrish? Think of what we could do with this. Of who might want to hear this." Vazquez could not discern whether the cook could mean to turn his story over to the crown, or to a hoard of pirates, but he was beyond caring.

Pain had begun gnawing unavoidably at his insides, and his vision began to darken.

"Yes, you're right, Silver. But it will matter for naught if this man dies before he can tell us more."

The man in question suppressed a laugh at the comment, "Thank you for your concern." His voice was thick and slurring, and he felt himself teeter in his seat.

Before either sailor could react, he slid out of the chair to the floor, landing with a pained groan.

"Shit!" Yelled the cook, jumping up to get him. Many eyes were drawn to the commotion, but Parrish also jumped up, hands up in apology.

"Our friend cannot hold his ale! We will see him safely to bed." He called to those showing concern. He went to the bartender and asked for a free room, their own being booked too far away to take this man in his condition.

The bartender left to fetch a key, and Parrish missed him speaking quickly to a hidden figure by the kitchen door, as Parrish had also missed this figure hovering by the bar, close enough to hear the tale.

Key in hand, Parrish went back to Silver and Vazquez, as the stout cook attempted to heave the half-conscious man off the ground. With the captain's assistance they were able to lurch across the tavern floor, mostly hiding the dark patch spreading across the abdomen of the man they held barely upright, but the keen eyes from the kitchen had seen.

Up the stairs, they had a room with a bed and two cots and deposited the now fully unconscious Spaniard on the bed.

"How many do you think heard downstairs?" Parrish asked.

"Too many." Was the cook's response.

They thought in silence for a moment.

A knock on the door interrupted. A girl had brought clean water and a basin, at Parrish's request.

"Right then." He said and moved over to the bed. He was no physician, but he was a captain, and he knew a little about tending to a wound, even if the action was futile.

Methodically, he pulled away all the cloth in the way, shirt and bandage stained with old and fresh blood. He took the slip off the pillow, hoping it to be clean, and tore it in half. One half he used to wipe clean the wound, surprisingly less inflamed than he expected - and only barely bleeding. The other half he left to be used as a new bandage.

"Silver, I don't suppose you've got any rum?" Cleaned, the damage to the Spaniard's abdomen looked much less severe, but Parrish would not stake his life on this assessment.

The cook looked almost contrite as he pulled a flask from his pocket and handed it over to the captain-come-doctor. Who then proceeded to pour its entirety over the wound.

Vazquez hissed in pain and was drawn back to consciousness. " _Los hijo de puta_ ," He gritted out. Parrish passed him what was left of the clean water to drink, and finished bandaging over the wound once again.

"So, what now?" grunted the cook, from across the room.

Vazquez looked between to two Englishmen, who each looked at him. "I will give it to you. The course. I'll write you the schedule of _L'Urca de Lima_. But there is something I want."

Suspicion lined the faces of Parrish and Silver. "And what might that be?" Entreated the former.

The breath went out of the Spaniard. "I don't want to die here. In some backwater English port as a wretch in an alley." His words might offend, but he didn't care. "I will write you the schedule, if you allow me to die at sea, she who has not yet betrayed me."

His wistful smile was a little manic, and he looked close to blacking out again.

Parrish thought on it a moment. What risk might lay in taking this man aboard, what reward might come from the information he offered. Finally, he nodded, determined.

"Alright Vazquez. As you wish. We set sail tomorrow, and you will journey with us, and relay the schedule. For now, just make it through the night." He gestured for the cook to speak with him quietly.

"We won't know if he'll have a change of heart, or if some bastard from downstairs will want to come up here and try his luck over what he's heard, so I suggest we take watches tonight. I'll take first, if you prefer." The cook just nodded and went to his cot, and Parrish spared a thought to wonder if indeed he could be trusted with such a secret. Regardless, this was their lot, and Parrish settled in a chair by the window for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zi8ShAosqzI


	2. John Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vazquez finds himself aboard the ship of Captain Parrish, with a new name, but not much hope.

Change of watch was fairly painless, Silver was used to early mornings on a ship, and to the orders of the captain, and despite their worries the night was uneventful.

Though their worries for the Spaniard had grown further, as when he awoke, he was feverish, and only speaking his mother tongue.

Parrish helped him back into his jacket and divested the rambling man of his coin purse. To the cook, he said, "Take him down to the ship, I'll sort out everything here and meet you there."

"Who should I tell the crew he is?" the cook asked, not looking forward to half carrying this man all the way to the docks.

"Perhaps a relation of yours, nephew, cousin, doesn't matter. Tell them he was in a fight or something. They probably won't care." Parrish seemed distracted with his own dilemma.

The girl had come back and was quite alarmed to see all the blood from the night before. The last the cook saw as he took down the stairs with the Spaniard was the captain proclaiming the man to be dead and pressing the pouch of gold into the hands of the girl.

He went the back way out the tavern and was pleased that the Spaniard had regained wits and strength enough to mostly walk for himself.

“We should not go this way,” Vazquez warned, eyeing the main road with suspicion. “If you do not want me to be seen.”

“I ain’t carrying you an extra three miles just to avoid the main road.” He sneered.

Vazquez shrugged. “I can walk if you want.” The cook also shrugged.

“You’re doing alright with that stick in your gut,” He said almost reluctantly. “For a Spaniard.” He added a touch of venom to the words.

Vazquez couldn’t help but laugh, though the action hurt. “A dying Spaniard, at least, hmm?”

The cook, though scornful, almost couldn’t help but like the man. “The Captain says we must explain you to the crew. Says to call you my kin, ‘til we needn’t bother anymore. Reckon you could keep your mouth shut and not give it away?”

The man grinned, ready to show off. He hadn’t been one of the most respected agents of Spanish Colonial Intelligence for nothing. Slipping completely out of his Spanish accent, but just shy of an English one, he said, “Oh, I’m sure I can do a little better than that. Kin, hmm? Can’t be anything too close to you or your lack of grief will be suspicious. Youngest grandson of your father’s brother, perhaps.”

The cook, instead of looking impressed, just scowls, but Vazquez pays no mind. “What was your name again, Silver?”

He nodded, “You’ve got a good memory to know that in your state.” He accused.

“All the better for you, to know my memory of the schedule is secure, hmm?” The cook silenced him with a look. Vazquez waved a hand to dismiss the concern. He would have noticed if they were being followed.

“Alright then.” He stepped away from the cook for a moment, swaying only slightly without the support, and held out a hand. “Mister John Silver, at your service, Uncle.” He gave another winning smile.

The cook laughed, “Alright, indeed. Let’s just get you back to the ship.”

At the docks, Vazquez had to lean much more on the cook for support, with the footing so uneven and cargo to be loaded blocking lots of the way. By the time they reached the ship, he was sweating, panting and pale.

A man approached them with a deep frown on his face. “Who’s this, Silver? I thought we weren’t to take on anymore crew.”

Before he could speak, the Spaniard had his weight off him and thrust a hand towards the ship’s bo’sun, smiling brightly. “John Silver, at your service. My old grandda' sent me off to learn from my uncle here, to learn a real trade and stop mooching off my poor dear parents.” He threw in a conspiratorial wink. The bo’sun ignored him almost completely.

“What’s wrong with him?” He asked of the cook, instead.

Silver gave him an apologetic smile. “Got in a bit of a tussle last night, I’m afraid, ran his mouth of at some nasty buggers. I spoke to the Captain about it all last night, I’m sure he’ll be round soon to settle it all."

The man looked like he might argue, but seemed to decide it wasn’t worth the effort, with so much else to do before cast-off. He waved them on and the two men slowing hobbled across the gangplank.

A quick decision had the cook depositing the injured Spaniard in the Captain’s Quarters rather than with him in the galley, and at the way his cheery manner and energy faded to pained breathing and Spanish curses under his breath, he figured the greater privacy was the better option.

Without a word he left Vazquez alone, with nothing to do but wait to be underway. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself, Vazquez heaved himself out of the chair and stumbled over to the bed, thinking to himself that Captain Parrish would have to forgive him the impropriety of finding him in it – hopefully not dead – whenever he arrived.

He awoke again when he heard the voices of the captain and the cook arguing outside the door to the cabin. He couldn’t seem to find the energy to even sit up, much less vacate the captain’s cot, so he steeled himself for whatever consternation he would face at the slight.

But apparently there would be none.

“Ah, Mister Silver,” The captain didn’t show any shock or surprise at the man who lay dying in his bed, and the cook and another man followed him into the room, shutting the door behind them. “I’ve brought our ship physician to come and tend to you. Your uncle here quite underestimated your injuries in his telling to me before you came aboard.”

A farce, to placate the doctor, he was sure. He could barely manage a nod as they approached further. The doctor frowned at the sorry sight before him.

“Underestimated, indeed.” He commented, sliding a glance at the cook as he felt at the fever on the man’s brow. His frown deepened in worry and he began to remove the makeshift bandage from the previous night. He clicked his teeth at the condition of the wound, and the captain and the cook shared a concerned look behind him.

Silently, the doctor cleaned and redressed the wound, his patient trying hard to hide pained and feverish moans.

Once finished, the doctor turned to Silver. “I’m not hopeful about this, I’m afraid. It’s a nasty business. I could fetch him something to help with the pain, to make him comfortable, if you’d like.”

Before the cook could respond, there was a firm, “No,” from the bed. “No laudanum.” There was still much to be done that needed a clear head, or as clear as he could keep it. “I wouldn’t say no to a drop of rum though.”

The cook barked out a laugh and nodded to dismiss the doctor’s suggestion, “Aye, you heard the boy. I’ll fetch him some rum shortly. After a chat with the captain.”

Parrish walked the doctor to the door, quietly discussing his condition, before dismissing him and shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Judging by his assessment, we may not have much time left to us.” Parrish spoke to the room. He appeared to be avoiding looking at the Spaniard. “Whenever you are ready, Vazquez, we will begin. Mister Silver, would you go and fetch that rum? I have the feeling we’ll all need some by day’s out.”

If the cook was bitter at the very clear dismissal, he did well not to show it, and left after the doctor. “ _Capitán_ , do you trust your cook friend?”

Parrish looked at him sharply, showing hardness in his face, but whether from the divisiveness of the question, or the unexpected weakness of the voice asking, he could not tell.

“I do not ask to sew doubt, _capitán_ , fear not. I just wonder. It is not as if I could be invested in any given outcome, at this point, no?”

Captain Parrish sighed and sat heavily into his chair, angled toward the bunk. “Silver has been cook on this vessel longer than most of the crew have been sailing it. But these are not forgiving waters, and I don’t know that I would trust any of them, at the end of the day. Silver is amicable enough, so I suppose I don’t need to trust him to like him.”

Vazquez gave a quiet chuckle; he knew the feeling. In his profession, trust was almost unheard of, but life was almost unbearable if you couldn’t find yourself to like anybody. “True enough, _capitán_ , true enough.”

Parrish looked ready to ask something himself, but Sliver returned with a bottle of dark sweet rum and silenced him. He dragged the other chair over beside the captain and handed the bottle over to Vazquez, who heaved himself vaguely upright to take a swig.

“Very well.” He said. “Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again asking for your compliments.


	3. Life on a Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vazquez has assumed the identity of John Silver, cook's apprentice. But, will it hold up in the face the pirate threat?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man so I initially was going to use this chapter as an account of the three months between Parrish meeting Vazquez and Flint finding Parrish, but it just felt so booooring. and I figured, if I'm bored writing it, ya'll would probably be bored reading it... i'll probably pepper in some anecdotes of Vazquez slowing becoming silver throughout it all, so no loss there.

“Sails!”

The man who is now John Silver was chopping potatoes when the call went up. This was not the first time the call had been raised in his three months serving as the cook’s mate aboard Parrish’s ship. But each time had made his blood run cold, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself he had no stake in the outcome of any interception. Which would have been a lie whether or not he had any interest in who eventually would come for the schedule, for as a member of the crew he would now share their fate.

The ship was quiet in anticipation of identifying their possible interloper, as if the very boards were holding their breath. The crew was still completely unawares of their priceless cargo on board, and saw no reason to fear any violent incursion over such a relatively worthless haul. Nevertheless, they had still seemed to absorb the captain’s disproportionate apprehension each time they met with another vessel.

“British colours!” John Silver heard the quartermaster describe further. In these waters, this was not necessarily a reassurance. Most pirates flew under the colours until they knew best when to raise their own. It would be a longer wait until the captain and crew would be sure this was no threat.

Distraction came in the form of the cook walking down into the galley, ignoring the men beginning to stir from their rest at the call. He made his way over to his apprentice, still cutting vegetables with a deliberately unreadable expression.

“You keep at it, John my boy. Once all this is over the men will be wanting for a good meal.” His tone was relaxed, but it had the air of practice, at least to the trained ear of a once-spy. John Silver easily kept his suspicion off his features and accepted the instruction with a smile.

“Could use one myself, to be honest. I don’t think I can take another false alarm out here.” He played a little bit with the man, and saw the sweat at his brow, a sign the cook had little faith their luck would yield yet another false alarm.

The cook seemed to hesitate, deciding perhaps whether or not to stay and avert any suspicion from the spy-become-cook’s mate. His nerves seemed to win out however, and he barely made an excuse before turning back the way he came and disappearing above deck.

Almost the instant he was gone, the bosun was in his place, rousing all the men below to arms. The ship had started its course of pursuit, and evidently was well equipped outdistance their own. No new colours had been raised, but at this point there was no doubt who they were to be assailed by.

There was an explosion of activity as the men threw themselves to their feet. In amongst the bustling crowd, John Silver stepped away from his station and followed with the exodus out of the galley. With the ease of experience, he was able to weave his way through the throng without calling attention to his movements or hindering anyone else’s.

Once on deck, he surveyed the chaos. He spotted Parrish at the stern, a glass to the advancing pirates, blood gone from his face as he watched the black flag rise, proud and threatening.

“Sir, she’s still closing. We simply cannot outrun her! We must surrender while we still can.” The frantic voice of the ship’s bosun drifted across the deck, filling each man on it with dread. Most especially those who could see the determination in the set of the captain’s face as he signalled to the gun crews.

John Silver wondered to himself what the crew thought it was they were defending, watching them follow the captain’s orders with frenzied desperation. Sweeping the deck with his eyes he spotted his quarry and watched as the cook worked his way across the deck to the captain’s cabin.

Evidently, the goodwill between him and the captain throughout their endeavour had run dry in the face of greater opportunity. No honour amongst thieves, and all, though no judgement would come from the man guilty of betraying his King and country.

Several moments later the cook re-emerged, appearing empty-handed, though his observer knew better. Quickly and carefully, John Silver moved across the deck to follow as the cook as he scurried below deck like a rat down a hole. He caught the door of the armoury just as the real Silver heaved it closed after him.

The cook was thrown over backwards as his pursuer forced the door open enough to let himself through, barring it behind him.

“What are you doing?” Silver the cook asked as he hurried to get up, before realising who he was now locked in with, and a touch of dread flitted across his features.

“Sorry,” he said the word with fake triviality, as if only for having knocked the man over.

“Why aren’t you on deck with the crew?” A useless question the man already knew the answer to.

“Why would I be up there? I’m just a cook. I could get killed up there.” They were playing a game now, each pretending that they didn’t know exactly what the other was there for.

“No, I’m the cook, and you’re a coward, then?” And so, the game was drawing to an end. “What do you think the captain would do if he found out you’ve abandoned your quarters?”

“Well, if he’s dead and I’m alive? I like my chances.” He shot a wicked smile at the cook as they heard the loud burst of canon fire from the belly of the ship, followed by the frantic voice of the captain, evidence of the shots’ failure to land.

A moment later the ship was ricked by the return fire, throwing barrels of powder around the room, breaking the two of them out of their elaborate scene.

“So, what was your plan here? Just hand over the schedule to these brigands and hope for the best?”

“Good cooks are in short supply, even for criminals.” It seemed like a rehearsed line, but not a lie. “You know who that is out there? That ship flies the banner of Captain Flint. They make port at Nassau. After Rosario, you think they’ll want anything from a filthy Spaniard like you? They’ll gut you for sport.”

John Silver dropped his cheery countenance. “And where does that leave us?” He wondered aloud, voice dark with the implied threat, and heavy with the accent suppressed these long months.

The cook was saved from answering by another heavy volley of canon fire, throwing them about the armoury, and sending loose a small parcel from the folds of the cook’s dirty coat.

“What’s this?” The Spaniard smirked dangerously as it rolled towards him, but the cook dashed forward to grab it, and back away again, quicker than he’d ever seen the man move.

The two surveyed each other across the space for a moment, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Finally, John Silver calmed himself. “Who’s to say there isn’t room for two cooks, looked like a big ship, lots of big, hungry crewmen. What’s say we come to an agreement?” He tried placating the man, at least to set him at ease. All this getting thrown about had made his side ache where he was healing, and he was wary to aggravate it further by having to fight.

The cook’s mouth turned up into a sneer, and the Spaniard saw this effort were hopeless. “Well, maybe when Captain Flint gets here, we can let him decide?” He returned the sneer.

“You wouldn’t wanna do that.” The cook lunged for a sword, knocked free in the blast, and held if between them.

With a quick shake, the Spaniard Vazquez loosened his stance and lightened his step, and prepared for the onslaught. The cook’s slices were wide, and his stabs messy, and the man deftly evaded them, but more canon fire again had them both tumbling about the room.

The Spaniard found Silver above him, in an unfortunate maneuver, and had to grapple for a moment to deflect the sword from delivering another nasty gash to his gut. With more effort that he had thought necessary, he was able to wrest the sword free and aim it squarely at the cook’s chest.

As their eyes met over the blade, it seemed each of them showed regret at the circumstances. However, both men were denied any further thought on the matter, as the force of the attacking ship crushing against the hull drove the cook forward onto the blade, and the Spaniard had barely a moment to roll away lest he be crushed under the man.

It was as if the death had becalmed the whole ship. Above, the shouting of crewmen fell into an eerie, foreboding silence, there was no more canons, even the musket fire had paused. The Spaniard took the moment to consider the man lying dead before him.

Just that morning they had been friendly, maybe even friends. Three months he had been by the man’s side, learning his trade, even growing to like him. He supposed three months of forced closeness paled in the face of untold riches, no matter how likable he had made himself.

Vazquez divested the cook of the parcel, clutched in one cold hand, and tucked it into his jacket without inspecting it further. Now was not the time for investigating just how much the man had taken from the captain’s log, not when bloodthirsty pirates could come knocking down the door any moment.

Instead, he decided to retreat to a corner and weather out the battle above, which he could hear about to begin again in earnest, as the howling, drumming chant of the pirate’s war-cry echoed in the air, followed by an explosion that once again shook the very timbers of the already well defeated ship.

To distract himself from the carnage above, the Spaniard found himself musing on his time aboard. Days spent sick with fever, dutifully trying to remain lucid enough to dictate to the captain the course of the treasure galleon. The night his fever had finally broken, and the three sat together and contemplated their next move. Whether the Englishmen would be forced into action, killing the Spaniard themselves to be rid of the danger he posed, or if another option was possible.

In the end he supposed they were, in a way, rid of their Spaniard. Story goes, Vazquez died that fateful night in Port Royal, so what was another death? He had agreed, for his own sake, and the sake of their fortune, to renounce his past identity, and forge anew as John Silver, the cook’s nephew, and apprentice.

In truth he couldn’t say exactly why he had decided to stay aboard the vessel. He didn’t truly care to see the schedule delivered to the British. Nor did he have any inclination to defend it from raiders. If he had to guess, he would simply say he was curious, and wanted to position himself so as to have the best view possible to survey the chaos his actions had wrought.

Or, as he had mused on that first night, he simply wished to be remembered for something. But by which name he would now be remembered, whether he would walk off this ship as the Spaniard Vazquez, or as John Silver, he had yet to decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally made it to episode 1!  
> I've been waiting to add my little twists to the show dialogue since i thought of this idea! (poor stan is getting quite a workout with all the rewinding and transcribing im doing lol)


	4. Welcome Aboard the Walrus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decision made, John Silver is introduced to the crew of the Walrus.

“What the fuck is this?” The voice was muffled through the barred door of the armoury. The clamour of carnage from above had long since morphed into more subtle sounds of the pirates rummaging about the ship, cataloguing their haul.

“It’s blocked Mr Gates.” Sealed away in the armoury, the stowaway wondered idly whether the invading crew was as in the dark about the value of the ship’s true prize as the defenders had. Perhaps Captain Flint had been just as tight-lipped about their secret possession as Captain Parrish had been with his own crew.

With a powerful slam the door was propelled inwards off its hinges, bar and all, evidently leveraged by some sort of makeshift battering ram.

Gun raised, a stern-looking bald pirate cautiously made his way into the room, flanked by a black man adorned with scars all down his arms and wickedly sharp false teeth. They took in the sight of the man lying impaled and still on the floor, then the man standing conspicuously beside him.

“Hello,” The man started, stepping slowly and carefully forward, holding his hands up loosely in surrender. Seeing the suspicious glances between him and the body, he offered an improvised explanation for the tableau, sounding contrived even to his own ears. “He couldn’t handle the thought of what you might do to him.”

Pushing forward regardless, he stepped smoothly around the dead cook. “I, on the other hand, would very much like to join your crew.” The pirate, presumably this was Mr Gates, cocked the gun in his face. Being careful to school his features into an appropriate combination of fear, respect and sincerity, he continued, “My name is John Silver, and I happen to be a very good cook.”

He flashed the two a quick, tight smile, drawing a small laugh from at least of them. Seeming no less skeptical of him, the other man lowered his gun and introduced himself as the Quartermaster, gesturing for the cook to follow him out onto the deck.

Subtly John Silver took stock of the men throughout the ship as he was marched through. Most seemed to be quite relaxed in the aftermath of the fire fight, it was as if now they’d conquered the ship, they saw no threat at all, even in the unfamiliarity.

Up on deck there was a crowd gathered, the men of the prize crew knelt and stood, surrounded by pirates, and yet it didn’t have the feeling of a guard so much as a mob. As John Silver was able to make out the speech of the man addressing the crowd, he could see why.

“-made for ourselves a different life, where we don’t rely on wages, we own a stake, and where our pleasure isn’t a sin. It’s a virtue.” Silver met the eyes of the heavily scarred man, hiding his reaction to the address. He was well versed in persuasive techniques to inspire defectors, and he hoped this was not the infamous Captain Flint.

As the man went on, it became clear that he wasn’t, but it wasn’t as reassuring as it could have been, given the implications. “We also know what it’s like to see our brothers die in the service of no end other than a tyrant’s pride.”

The cook put it out of his mind as he was brought before another pirate, this one bare-chested and coated in blood and dark paint. An intimidating picture, to be sure, but he and Mr Gates’ musing over the spectacle before them dispelled the fearsome impression some.

Mr Gates left him with the man and headed off, likely to the captain’s cabin, and the captain’s logs. Silver tried not to worry what the contents of the logs might reveal about his identity. He had to put a little faith that Captain Parrish would have kept up the farce they had designed all those months ago.

He had little time to dwell on it, as his attention was pulled again to the scarred man and his mob. He had pulled out a pouch of tools and set them before the men, and apparently the intention was to take their pound of flesh from the captain, in reparation for the lack of surrender, and for the lacklustre prize.

Silver felt an unexpected surge of guilt at the sight of Parrish lashed to the mast, awaiting such a horrible fate. It was, after all, his own actions that had led them all down this path, to this end. He hoped his new escort, the bosun named Billy, dismissed his uneasy expression as simply distaste for the violence, and not a personal interest.

He kept out of the way as Billy coordinated the removal of the cargo back across to the other ship and took the time to observe the organised chaos. Without obviously keeping watch, he monitored the situation with the captain, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach as the mob was let lose at the tools of barbarism laid before them.

He also spied as a distinguished figure in a long black coat cut across the deck toward the man. Even from across the ship Silver could see the striking red stubble along the man’s jawline, catching his eye. The man got in close to Parrish, evidently not wanting his conversation overheard. Silver knew that he should appear less obvious in his observation of the interaction, but he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away from the men.

After a few short, tense exchanges Captain Flint, presumably, heard what he needed to, and walked away from the bound man. As he did not immediately begin searching in earnest for the usurping cook, Silver assumed that Parrish had not yet betrayed his identity.

Silver also bore witness to a power play between the captain and the scarred man, just beyond the mast, though he could not see nor hear enough of it to discern an outcome.

“Sail!”

A sudden flurry of movement as crewmen hurried to port-side to see for themselves, and even more frantically as they all rushed back onto their ship and cut loose from their prize. Silver allowed himself to be swept over to the pirate vessel with the rest of the crew.

It was a bit of a chaotic introduction to the Walrus, but John Silver tried to best to make his acquaintance unobtrusively as the crew got her underway and made haste away from the scene. The prospect of the British Navy at their heels would not be a particularly pleasant introduction to this new life, but once underway they seemingly evaded them with ease.

Once they had settled into their course, Billy found him again, and led him down to the galley. There he was introduced to Randall, who had been acting as the ships cook, a most interesting man who seemed personally affronted at the introduction of a replacement for his temporary duties.

Billy appraised Silver of the obligations and particulars of his new position, and he was suddenly immensely grateful for the time spent actually learning under the tutelage of the original Mr Silver. John Silver hazarded that he would not have lasted a day on this ship without at least a basic knowledge of the role.

“One more thing,” the bosun warned. “No one gets and special treatment from you of any kind. No extra rations, no preferences in cuts of meat. Not for me, not for the quartermaster, not for the captain. Here, every man is equal.”

A very pragmatic statement. Silver tested his luck, and nodded to Randall, the simple man still spitefully chopping potatoes. “Even him?” He asked derisively. It was a cheap shot, but to take a measure of the man.

The bosun stepped into his space, not a threat, but the threat of a threat. “Randall was the ship’s bosun before he got beaten to within an inch of his life taking a prize. He lost his wits, but not our loyalty.” The man leaned closer again, and Silver could smell the blood and gunpowder on him.

“We like Randall. You? We’ll see.” With that he turned and left the new cook to his station.

Silver took a moment to pacify Randall, assuring him the new arrival had no intention of turfing him out of the kitchen. He made an effort to chat amiably with the man for while - or at least at him, the man remained silent in his judgement of the new cook – trying to assuage any hurt feelings.

Eventually, Silver wandered off for a moment to a quiet corner to finally take purchase of what the old cook had pilfered from the captain’s log.

The parcel held a single page, and the page itself held only the schedule. No mention of the Spaniard who wrote it, or his fate. If there were any mention of it, it would still be bound in the log, ripe for Captain Flint’s perusal.

Silver bound the page back up with a sigh and returned to Randall to aid in the food preparation. The task, however, proved superfluous as the announcement of landfall was made throughout the ship before there was any need for cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life will be so much easier when i no longer have to introduce every character we already know.... but alas, this is what we do


	5. A Warm Welcome from Nassau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Silver reaches Nassau. Nassau reaches right back. Max questions Silver. Silver questions his motives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit of a break from churning out chapters as quickly as possible... 😅😅  
> Instead, I've been spending most of my time reading - I read Luke Arnold's book!! It's very good, can recommend, especially if you're a lover of urban fantasy or a bit of noir fiction 🕵️  
> I've also been powering through pretty much every fic this fandom has to offer, (which are also pretty much all amazing?😭) (and also being distracted by a couple of other ideas.... )  
> So here's a bit more of it, I hope you enjoy ❤

Unloading a pirate vessel wasn't hugely any different from a merchant one, Silver mused. Crewmen ferried between the ship and the shore, offloading their haul to be appraised by the powers that be. The port bustled like any other, though there was a strange easiness in the air Silver almost didn't identify.

Men fell into the arms of lovers, paid or otherwise, completely unashamedly. Drink and coin and merriment were traded about un-selfconsciously, in a way no lawful sailor would manage without fear of reprisals upon their position. There was a distinctive lack of shame in the way these people went about their business.

They truly did own this place, and they knew how to act like it.

Unpacking with a new crew-mate, a man named Logan, John Silver learned bits and pieces of the workings of the island, how it was managed. He had heard the tales of the Guthries on Nassau, of their trade scheme and unorthodox leadership. Now he got to experience it in person, instead of through the whispers of informants.

He found himself unpacking the basket of journals from the ship, one volume conspicuously missing. The torn page was burning a hole in his jacket pocket, and Silver wracked his mind, trying to remember whether Captain Parrish had written anything about his assumed identity alongside the tale of his provenance. It got him nowhere, those memories were lost in the throes of his fever. He would have to find out for himself. 

Silver excused himself from Logan and approached the ship's accountant, a bookish man he heard called Dufresne.

"Your recipes," the man did not attempt to hide his cynicism.

"I left them with our captain for safe keeping, but I don't see them with the rest of the journals." An adequate enough explanation, given the man was only paying half a regard to the conversation in the first place.

"All the volumes from the prize are here unless the captain took it. In which case, it in his cabin on the ship." It almost didn't seem worth irritating the man. Silver had already guessed as much, and this guy didn't really seem in the mood for humouring the cook in his fruitless search, likely busy coordinating the unloading of the prize.

Whatever expression Silver showed on his face must have been read as confusion, for by way of explanation Dufresne continued, "He likes his books."

Silver pondered for a moment the controversy of a bookish pirate captain, most remarkably coming from arguably the most well-read man on the crew. He looked out towards the Walrus and tried to recall any such description of Captain Flint being brought to him in his former position. Most of what he learned would have been concerning the man's actions, rather than that of his character.

He was distracted from his musings by the approach of Logan and a new associate, whom Silver did not recognise from the Walrus crew.

"Is this necessary, he's just a cook."

"He meets the new ones, no exceptions."

The exchange struck Silver as rather contrived. He could swear both men were only barely containing great amusement at his expense. He gave in to curiosity, "What's going on? Who wants to meet me?"

Logan, with the straightest face he could manage, which in his defense would have fooled any man not schooled for years in the art of deceit, stated gravely, "Blackbeard."

Silver himself knew for a fact the man had not set foot on New Providence Island in years, thorn in the side of the Spanish as he was, he was closely monitored. But Silver now understood what this was. He was being hazed.

Silver dropped his expression into a look of an appropriate level of apprehension, and allowed himself to be led through he town. He hoped this would not involve anything too unpleasant, but in the midst of pirate scoundrels he wasn't hugely confident.

Until of course, they brought him to the brothel. Trust pirates to deliver the unexpected. This was looking to be a most pleasant induction to his new life.

"Whatever you do, don't show fear." Silver was careful to put as much effort into his nervous affirmation as his theatrical escort, though it was immensely hard not to smirk at Logan's earnest instruction as he made his way into a dimly lit room.

A seated figure, shrouded in a dark cloak and hidden by a broad hat, surrounded by beautiful, scantily-clad women was the centerpiece to the act.

As the figure raised their head to expose the face of another beautiful woman, Silver found he could no longer keep his amusement at bay.

"You're not Blackbeard." He could hear the amusement in his voice, though he was surprised at himself with the eagerness he was feeling at the development. He knew well that a whorehouse was a place for man to lose more than just their coin and inhibitions, and he now had more to lose than most.

The woman parted her coat to reveal an impressive black merkin, which may or may not have once been someone's actual beard, and Silver told himself it was the long months at sea and near death experience that drove him to surrender himself to the wiles of his companions, despite his innate reservations.

At their mercy, Silver could not fault the ladies' performance. He realised that the whole scenario was less about what they could take from him now, and more about what he could bring them later, and keep bringing them.

Not for all of them though, it seemed, as Silver was caught out following his precious bundle as it rolled out of his jacket across the floor by the sharp eyes of a girl who spoke with a lovely lilting French accent as she reprimanded him for his distraction.

Silver tried to keep his attention on the delightful ministrations of his fine companions, but try as he might he couldn't help but keep half a thought focused on his prized possession. He was fairly confident, however, the only woman to notice his distraction was the same as had been tipped off from the beginning.

One good thing about distraction though, it pairs very well with endurance, and Silver was quite happy not to waste this enticing sample of pleasure, presented to him so generously. Whether or not it would be worth the cost, he was yet to discover.

Stated and drowsy, Silver remained recumbent as each of his companions left him to rest, and allowed himself to appear asleep when the sharp-eyed French girl returned, and carefully picked up the bound page. Instead of taking it and running however, she just set it on the small table and set about pouring a cup of tea.

Feeling theatrical, as he had earlier, Silver reached to pull on his shirt and made a show of scrambling around for the missing item. And nothing if not the felicitous narrative foil, the woman was kind enough to indulge him in his scene.

"A whore for every finger on your hand, but your eyes kept drifting to this. Tell me, what is it that is so precious to you?" Her tone was amused, and deeply curious.

"Tell me, does your employer know his whores like to steal from their customers?" Silver made no move forward, no threat, he just crossed his arms across his chest. The girl seemed slightly perturbed at the insignificant reaction, but forged on nonetheless.

"Perhaps I should share with him, and your new captain, that you have withheld something of great value that rightly belonged to his latest prize." She stepped close to him and leveled him a hard look and he was impressed by her nerve, though he knew he was not a particularly intimidating presence.

He huffed out a laugh at her daring, and turned away to finish re-dressing. "So, what now?"

"This is to sell, is it not?" Silver should not have been surprised at her question, but he was indeed bewildered that he wasn't entirely sure on his answer, regardless of whether it had been rhetorical.

Unaware of his brief turmoil, she continued her pitch, "but you cannot know who best to sell it to. I could know that."

Absently, Silver played along, still wrestling with himself. He was trying to figure out what on earth he though he /had/ intended to do with the schedule, if not sell it. Hold onto it until it killed him? Again?

He scoffed, half at the woman's demand for an equal share in any sale, and half at his own train of thought.

"Pleasure should be shared equally. It's the only way to avoid hurt feelings." She fixed him with playful pout and an alluring look. The barely healed over scar in his side gave a twinge, and he was reminded of the risks of this little venture.

"Look, this deal, it's really a terrible idea," he warned. "There are so many ways it could go wrong. Me? I can't help myself. I see an opportunity, I take it. It's a sickness, truly." Isn't that how he ended up in this whole mess. He saw an opportunity to wreak unto Spain the injury it had wrought on him. And he took it.

"But you, you can still walk away-" She cut him off with a word, and seemed entirely unaffected by his whole appeal.

" _Bien_. Now tell me what it is." Tired of games, she dropped the playful tone and stood expectantly, and impatiently, before him.

Silver weighed the options. He could tell her the truth now, but it was unlikely she'd ever heard of _L'Urca de Lima_ , unlikelier still that she would know Captain Flint was on the hunt for it. With the crew in the dark, or sworn to secrecy of the very existence of what was currently in his - their- possession, It's true value was likely to be underestimated.

Silver decided it would be better to bide his time and play ignorant, to draw out their dealings a little longer, at least until he could be certain of his absence from the captain's ledger, and thus relative safety. And if he was honest with himself, at least a little so he could prolong his involvement with the schedule.

"I don't know." Was all he said, with a well-practiced, honest smirk.

* * *

After dark, he and the woman he now knew as Max ventured to the Walrus. He did not know who would be aboard to guard the ship, so he climbed up the hull and directly into the cabin window. With a conveniently lit lantern, he searched carefully through the captain's desk, but could only find novels and navigation maps and tools. A heavy bookcase with a pair of locked drawers stood behind the desk. From his pocket, Silver took a pair of long metal pins and set to work opening the drawers. One held a very expensive looking bottle of wine. And the other, his quarry.

Hastily he flicked through the pages, looking for the mentions of his name, and of the _Urca_. He found the tattered stump of the torn page, and he retrieved the missing piece from his pocket, and pressed it in place. He scanned the accompanying pages, seeing his story laid out in ink.

The story ended the way he told it. According to this telling, the Spaniard named Vazquez was dead, and that would be the end of his tale, unless he made it otherwise.

He leaned against the desk, deep in thought. This man was not a stranger to a change in identity. Over the years, he had worn many, and cast them aside when they were no longer useful. John Silver had been useful, and still would be, for the duration of the transaction, and then he could be cast away. Whoever he became next could be a rich man.

From the corner of his eye, Silver spotted a downy feather, pale against the red rug. An eerie calm fell about him as he considered it.

Replace the feather, and Captain Flint would remain oblivious to his deception, and by the time he would be made aware of his betrayal, John Silver would be gone, and he would never return. But leave the feather, and the captain - clearly a quick witted man - would connect the missing page to Silver. He would probably not connect Silver to Vazquez, but perhaps that would be enough, to remain an agent in this story.

A ghost brushed his shoulder - a shiver down his spine - and an island away, unbeknownst to him, his story was being told.

_"Let me tell you a story about a Spaniard named Vazquez._

_A few weeks ago he staggers into a tavern in Port Royal. Takes a seat next to an English merchant captain._

_Vazquez, it turns out, is dying. Bleeding to death from a knife wound to the belly. The knife wound was courtesy of his former employer, La Casa del Contratación, in Seville."_

_"Colonial Intelligence."_

_"Naval, more specifically. One of their top agents in the Americas. Responsible for the security of one particular ship._

_A ship with a cargo so rich, the King of Spain is very anxious to see it launched. Vazquez warned it was too late. Storm season was upon them and no escort could be mustered to guard her._

_But his superiors demanded that he sign off. They advised him that if he couldn't arrange for an escort, he should plot a course for the ship unknown to anyone but her captain, and consider that route to be a state secret of the highest order._

_When Vazquez refused and threatened to report his concerns to the court, things got ugly._

_The ship in question,' L'Urca de Lima', 'the largest Spanish treasure galleon in the Americas."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking (overthinking) about how I'm writing this and whether or not I'm really doing justice writing this as a /story/ or just as an idea. Trying very hard to achieve the former, so the tone may change a bit in the coming chapters. Hope you still enjoy!


	6. The Captain of the Walrus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gambit, and a siren song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what was it i said about not quickly churning out chapters?

John Silver was silent as the co-conspirators rowed back to shore. He was silent as they walked back to the brothel. He was silent as Max brought him up to an empty, private room.

John Silver spoke with a voice of awe as he described the value of the stolen page to his new associate. Max looked as if it was something beyond her wildest dreams. Silver could see the plans racing around just behind her eyes.

She did not interrupt, or question, or comment, as if overwhelmed by the whole opportunity. Then, she nodded, changed back into her usual attire, and left him alone.

He rested a short while, not quite able to sleep, until he realised his hunger, and decided to head downstairs for a bite to eat.

The brothel floor was crowded with pirates, many of them crew of the Walrus, some in the arms of women, others in the arms of an ale or a warm meal. Silver recognised a few of them, but was not well enough acquainted with any of them to feel like joining in. Logan, he surmised, had already retired for the night into the arms of his 'sweet Charlotte'.

So, Silver bought a bowl of stew, a crust of bread and a pint of ale, found himself a corner, and tried not to look lecherous.

He had finished his meal, and almost his ale, when Max came and laid herself across his lap. "Have you found us a buyer?"

"Patience, _mon cher_." Silver could feel her breath against his cheek, her hair against his neck, and wondered whether her closeness was only for the illusion of potential questioning eyes. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to reap benefits of another nature as part of this bargain. He pushed the thought from his mind, she was too clever by half to be let so close again, who could say what Silver would stand to lose next. And besides, despite their allusions to the contrary, it was best not to mix business and pleasure.

"Few here are willing to cross your captain and those I have in mind must be approached with caution." Though, after this Max became distracted by a woman walking up to the bar. And just as Silver had showed his hand earlier with the page, so she showed hers here.

The raw concern that showed in her face as she excused herself to join the woman, the caring authority she seemed to show in her presence, the hesitant tenderness the woman followed her with as she led her out of the crowd and up the stairs, all betrayed the situation.

Silver watched curiously. No man or woman there batted an eyelash at the sight, perhaps it was a common one. Another one of the peculiarities of lawless Nassau town. Silver laughed to himself for a moment. Love, tenderness - not in spite of the pirate hoard, but perhaps owing to it. Once again, trust pirates to deliver the unexpected.

Silver polished off his ale and dropped some coin off at the bar to pay for his room for the night, though the woman there seemed chagrined that he would be occupying it alone. But, as nice as company would be, Silver needed his rest. Lord only knows what tomorrow might bring.

* * *

The next morning, Silver was roused by the clamour of excited voices and someone thumping away at his door. Blearily, he stumbled over to open it, nearly taking a fist to the face in the process.

"Logan," He said, surprised. "What's going on?"

"They said you was in here. Too worn out for company, eh?" He gave Silver a wicked grin. "Come on, we're all heading back to the Walrus, I think today's gonna be the vote."

Vote? _Mierda_. Silver thought instantly to the scar-faced man rabble-rousing on Parrish's ship. So it was that bad was it? "Alright, just give me a minute to get my shit together."

Not much to gather, really, but shove his shirt and his shoes on, make sure he still had the page tucked securely into his jacket, and he was good to go. He needn't have rushed, though, those waiting for him had decided to stop for a quick drink downstairs, which naturally took them almost half an hour to finish.

Silver found himself a little swept up in the comradery, partaking at least a little in the breakfast ale, and the gentle ribbing of love-sick Logan about his lovely Charlotte.

Eventually though, they all head off to the docks, and Silver tried to find the dread he expected at the prospect of returning to the Walrus. There, he would face Captain Flint, who may or may not kill him on the spot, especially if it meant the difference to him retaining his captaincy.

Alternatively, he may be staring down a whole new monster if Flint is deposed, and his gnarled rival - Singleton, he had been told - steps into his place.

Surprisingly, the Captain was the last aboard, and by the looks of him and the bosun, they had been abroad for quite some time. Flint may not yet have had time to find the feather, to come to the dreaded conclusion. He may not have time to act at all before it is already the least of his worries.

For some reason, this thought did not reassure John Silver. He watched the Captain stalk to his cabin, the Quartermaster hot on his heels, with a vacant expression.

On deck, men were showing Singleton their support, in the Captain's absence. Singleton, in a surprising display of restraint, did not goad them. He stood, quiet, completely unperturbed, confident, and just waited.

The Captain returned to deck with a book clutched in his hand. Parrish's ledger. Silver felt something twist in his belly. Fear, or perhaps anticipation? His mere presence sent an unnatural quiet through the crew, whether through respect, guilt or fear, Silver could not discern.

"I'm sorry." The first words Silver had heard the Captain speak, and he was surprised and their softness, their sincerity. "For the short hauls, for the trouble I've caused. But most importantly, for the disregard it seems I've shown you."

"The most important element of a healthy ship is trust. Trust between men. Trust between Captain and crew. Without it, a ship is doomed." He spoke to the crew as if to one man, and the crew heard him as one. Silver could feel it in their reactions, no one looked to each other, just at Flint. Flint looked to Singleton.

"For the past few months, you and I have been on the trail of a prize so rich it could upset the very nature of our world. And for that reason, I felt it necessary to keep it secret. I didn't trust you, and that was my mistake." This was the moment. The big reveal. Captain Flint either had a flair for the dramatic, or he was just very desperate, or perhaps both.

"Right now, I would like to tell you that prize is within our grasp, and we are close. So close. But it would appear that my concerns about secrecy had merit. Someone on this crew discovered my plans and tore from this log the very page necessary to discover that prize." Flint held the volume aloft, eyes glaring out, daring anyone to disbelieve him.

"Stole it for their own gain. Stole it from us." Silver felt his blood run cold at the words. Yet still, it was not dread he felt, but disappointment. John Silver stood his ground, ready for reprisal, but there was none. Flint's eyes passed over him like any other member of the crew, almost unseeing, glazed in their fervour. Then, he continued.

"And then, stoked your resentment to cover his crime and make himself your captain." Flint had circled the deck, like a waiting shark, and came to a stop just in front of Singleton.

"What? I don't know what he's talking about." Silver was sure in this moment that this scarred scapegoat knew nothing of the page, possibly nothing of the _Urca_ at all, even. Poor bastard. Silver couldn't help but smile, just slightly.

The two men stared each other down, even as the Quartermaster laid out their choice, not that there was much of one to be made. Flint said nothing as Singleton deliberated aloud his confidence in the contest ahead.

Flint remained silent as they shed their jackets, drew their swords, exchanged blows. Singleton roared with every slash, groaned with every hit, but Flint was silent even as he took the pommel of Singleton's sword to the nose, and a great cut across his chest. Silver knew which took more strength.

The captain was definitely the finer swordsman, but Singleton made up for it in bulk, at the two were very evenly matched. Flint broke Singleton's sword in two across a canon and finally his rage got the better of him and roared as Singleton lunged at him with half a sword.

He took a knee to the face and held back the wrecked sword with his bare hand as Singleton loomed over him. From a pile to his side, Flint took hold of a cannonball and turned the tide.

Only one blow came from the metal of the shot, but no man would tell the difference in the end. Silver watched as Captain Flint laid blow after blow upon the man held beneath him and heard the crew cheer him on, their support of Singleton forgotten completely in the bloody haze. The blows continued until the crew fell silent, and not a man spoke as the Captain broke from his murderous reverie.

With a shaking hand and wild eyes, Flint held out a folded piece of bloodied paper to the bosun. Billy unfolded it, his face unreasonable, and he barely seemed to look at it, instead caught by Flint's gaze. "It's the stolen page."

So the bosun was in on the gambit? Yet another man here with an interest in seeing him dead.

Spurred on by Billy's affirmation, Flint, wretched and hoarse before the men, spoke. "Friends, brothers. The prize that you and I have been pursuing is _L'Urca de Lima_!" Silver could not fathom how Flint had the strength to move, to walk, to stand before these men and inspire them, but he did it.

"The Hulk. A prize of almost unimaginable value. Now with this page securely in our possession, we can begin our hunt. And we will succeed." Each word rang with spittle and blood across the deck, and it entranced every man standing there.

"No matter the cost. No matter the struggle. I will see that prize is yours." Not a single man there spared a thought for Singleton, lying dead only a few feet away, all were swept up in the thrall of this siren song. "I'm not just gonna make you rich. I'm not just gonna make you strong. I'm gonna make you the Princes of the New World!"

As the crew around him erupted in chaos, shouting their accolades, Silver felt a warmth in his bones, and a chill in his blood. It was all very well to get swept up in a good story, such was the atmosphere aboard the Walrus, but this man well knew for this dream to succeed, he would likely not make it to tomorrow. Silver was sure, now more than ever, that this Captain Flint would be his end, even if he could not yet bring himself to be concerned about it.

The Captain, obviously confident after his effect on the crew, handed the floor over to his Quartermaster to address the men and disappeared into his cabin to clean himself up, and probably clear his head.

The quartermaster called upon Dufresne to help reign in their unbound excitement, a voice of reason to appease their calls for opulent celebrations.

In the midst of it all Silver saw the bosun just sitting, shell-shocked, clutching the bloody page. Billy looked as shaken as Silver felt, and the weight of the real page pulled heavily in Silver's pocket.

Both were pulled from their reverie by the movement of Mr Gates, approaching the bosun probably in aid of assuaging any guilt at his deception of the crew.

Then, the two were summoned away by Captain Flint, the blood washed from his face and hands, a clean bright white shirt covering the worst of his wounds. The snake that had been coiling in Silver's belly hardened into a stone and he knew this would be the moment of realisation between these three men. Silver knew he should run now, while he had a head start, and before they returned, but he felt rooted to the spot.

The three men returned and hovered at the rail on the quarter deck, eyes scanning the crowd. When John Silver met the eyes of Captain Flint across the ship he finally felt that icy fear he'd been anticipating, and he remained unable to move until the captain looked away, signalling to Billy to go - cautiously - to catch his quarry.

Beyond worrying how it might look, Silver's leg finally thawed, and he flew across the deck, angling to get on the nearest longboat, but was denied. Desperate, Silver took to the rail of the ship and barely considered the height of the fall before throwing himself over.

Something in the movement pulled harshly at his barely healed gut wound and he fell with a complete absence of finesse, unable to avoid hitting the water with a loud and painful impact.

He heard a chorus of laughter from the ship as he voiced his discomfort, evidently the man above found his eccentricity endearing, for the moment. Sliver swam himself over to the nearest longboat and was relieved they let him aboard, taking pity on him in their amusement. His torso still stung unpleasantly from the fall, and he could see the Captain, Quartermaster and bosun not far behind in the next launch from the Walrus.

On shore Silver employed his talents in misdirection, slipping easily from the sight of his pursuers. The only place he knew to return to would be the brothel, so he made his way there, careful to remain inconspicuous. Though, he had terrible timing, it seemed.


	7. Dark Dealings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Silver is discovered. Charles Vane is tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for all the blatantly copied dialogue y'all - im working on diverging a little more but just while i get into it its easier to follow along  
> also like rip for my shitty attempts at spanish i really should just not bother if im doing so little of it 😅🙄
> 
> anywhooooooo enjoy

Max was understandably less than impressed at Silver’s interruption, and even less pleased at the news he brought with him.

"You fucked me!" Silver could see the manic desperation creep into her expression at the realisation.

"There is no need to panic! We can still make the deal -" She cut him off, almost shaking with fear and rage.

"And then what? How long until Flint discovers I had a part in this?" Silver refrained from reminding her that he'd advised again her involvement in the first place. "When a man's been fucked, he wants to know whose cock was in him!"

Silver, amused by the analogy, held his hands out in a placating gesture, and tried to provide a somewhat reassuring solution. "By that time, these two cocks could be in a boat halfway to Port Royal."

From the look on her face she seemed surprised by the suggestion. "Port Royal?"

"After I get payment we meet at the boat in the cove and leave tonight." Silver though back to the blonde girl from the night before, wondering if their bond would be strong enough to arouse second thoughts in his business partner. "Unless there's something else keeping you here."

The jab felt unnecessary, but it seemed to push her to a decision regardless. In an attempt to deter her from thinking too hard on the dilemma, Silver segued into a new topic of conversation. "So, tell me about our buyer."

Max scrutinised him for a moment, as if to decide whether to feel annoyance or relief at the distraction, before settling herself in a chair at the small table, though this time there was no tea.

"The man I have been dealing with is a pirate by the name of Jack Rackham, quartermaster to the Ranger, captained by Charles Vane." She gestured for him to sit with her, and he sat, trying not to feel uneasy at the revelation.

Silver knew of Captain Charles Vane, or he had, before. He'd heard many tales of the man, once apprenticed to Edward Teach himself, who had struck out on his own to become just as fearsome and brutal in reputation. He frowned, slightly, and could not help but ponder that perhaps someone with that kind of reputation might actually stand a chance at capturing the _Urca_.

Max noticed his discomfort. "I told you we would have to be cautious with this buyer. But it should not be too dangerous while we are not working with Vane directly. Rackham is shrewd, and suspicious, but I think he is confident in our venture. I've also heard that he is very persuasive, particularly with his captain."

Silver tried to feel reassured by her words. But he could sense that both of them felt as if they were balancing on the edge of a knife, each trying to convince themselves that there was still a safe path across, and something satisfying waiting at the end.

He just nodded, accepting her assessment. He held her gaze, his expression shuttered. "So, what happens next?"

Max, apparently, was somewhat accustomed with process of such dark dealings, whether through personal experience or observation Silver did not hazard a guess. She had already negotiated most of the particulars with Mr. Rackham while Silver had been occupied aboard the Walrus, and so what was left for them to organise mostly had to do with timing.

With her mind apparently set on leaving the inn, and the island, Max neglected her usual clients in favour of sending a boy out to fetch Mr. Rackham, as well as to find the island's appraiser, and setting Silver up in an adjacent room.

She left Silver with a buxom whore named Idelle, whom he recognised from his memorable first day and was apparently a friend of hers, for appearances. The poor girl seemed quite disappointed at his disinterest in a repeat performance, despite the assurance from Max that she would still be well compensated for her time.

Max had dug around in her things for a few moments before finding and setting aside a stack of coins with which to pay the boy and the appraiser for their services. Silver felt a twinge of guilt that he had not offered his own coin for the deal, but all he had left was Spanish gold ducats, which would be a little too suspicious for a simple merchant ship’s cook to be carrying around.

Silver, through an obscenely purposeful hole in the wall, observed Jack Rackham's arrival and Max's silky greeting to him and his shadow. He could only see part of this other figure, silent and unnerving, largely obscured by a heavy coat and the brim of a beaten-looking slouch hat.

Max sat down at the table, but did not invite either pirate to join her, and Jack just threw a wry smile at his companion, gesturing for them to keep guard outside the room. The two remaining did not attempt to fill the wait with any talk.

With the arrival of the appraiser Max and Jack both, Silver could see, turned on their charm, almost as if testing to see how much it would work on each other. Max would not be satisfied until each pearl was individually valued, and both men were willing, if annoyed, to oblige.

Idelle had grown impatient with Silver's neglect and was apparently just downright bored sitting on the bed and messing with her hair. He spared little regard for her comfort, she was to be paid for sitting around doing nothing, after all.

When, finally, Max had overseen the examination of all the pearls, the appraiser sealed them into a small parcel, his mark stamped clearly into the sticky red wax. Max handed the man a generous payment as he left, ignoring Rackham as he hastily snatched the packet from the table.

"Thank you for your patience in these matters." Max poured a glass of wine from a heavy metal carafe and placed it in front of the nervous pirate, now seated at the table. "You understand, my partner simply wishes to be careful."

"I wouldn't fault him in the slightest.” Rackham took the glass and the explanation graciously. “Now, shall we discuss delivery."

"The wrecks. At sundown." Silver and Max had come to a decision fairly easily earlier in the day and were prepared for at least a little opposition. "Once he sees the pouch with the seal unbroken, he will hand over the page."

Rackham had look on his face somewhere between suspicious and impressed, and something about it set both Max and Silver on edge.

"Is something wrong?" enquired the former. She had stepped out of Silver's field of vision, and he tried not to feel concerned.

"It's unclear which is more appealing," the man drawled, an edge behind his words, "your beauty, or your intelligence."

"You are very kind, _monsieur_." Max was likely well practiced in this form of flattery, and equally practiced in returning it with charm.

Charm the pirate seemed, at least slightly, caught up in, "Well, let’s not get carried away." 

Whatever brief seduction might have been, intellectual or sensual, was harshly interrupted by the intrusion of someone Silver couldn't yet see.

He could, however, hear the recognition in the voice at coming face to face with Max, and he wondered at her audacity of going into a deal with someone bearing so much resentment.

Rackham, Silver could still see. His suave and confident demeanour had completely changed in the presence of this intruder. "Is there a problem, Captain?"

Silver swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. Max had said it would be easier not dealing with this man directly, and yet here he was, obviously unhappy with the proceedings.

"She doesn't have your page. Flint does. He killed Singleton, took it off his body." So, word had hit the beach about the Walrus crew's eventful morning, and their new prize. "His crew's skipping around the island like the prize is as good as theirs."

“That is impossible.” Max, apparently without concern for her own safety, interjected. "My partner has the page. Mr. Singleton is not the seller I assure you."

"What did you just say?" Silver heard but couldn't see as Captain Vane advanced on the woman. Rackham attempted to interrupt but Vane would not be deterred.

"Shut up Jack. You really wanna keep pushing this? Play me for a fool?" Silver pressed himself so hard into the wall he was surprised he did not fall through it; Max was pushing too hard and she was going to get herself hurt.

"You are mistaken." Silver silently begged her not to goad the man further and was honestly a little surprised at his own concern.

"Yeah, the fuck I am!" Silver saw and heard as Vane threw Max up against the wall, back into his field of view. He was holding her by the neck, and obviously enraged. "Tell me the truth. The page is gone."

"I need a weapon." Silver demanded quietly as he whirled around to Idelle, seeing even her looking concerned. Though he did wonder what exactly he planned to do against three armed and seasoned pirates. He balked a little when she pulled a heavy, most likely blunt cutlass from under the bed. Not exactly his weapon of choice. "That'll do."

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Silver could see the pain and fear written across Max’s face, and the blind rage on Vane’s. Rackham, apparently growing his balls back, finally interjected. Silver's grip was tight and sweaty on the heavy sword.

"She isn't lying, Charles. Flint is. He lost the page." He spoke quickly, but his signature charm rang in his words, giving even Charles Vane pause. "So, what does he do? He bluffs. He makes Singleton the thief and kills him to prevent counterargument, putting a tide end to his mutiny in the process, and hopes he can recover it before anyone's the wiser."

The quartermaster took a more confident step towards his captain, seeing opportunity in his hesitation. "Honestly, Charles, are we to believe that Singleton, while conspiring with you to depose Flint, was using this whore to try and bilk your crew out of its money? Say what you want about Singleton, but he was neither that clever nor that dumb."

Thinking him convinced, Rackham passed Vane by with a weary request, "Now will you please put her down so we can complete our transaction?"

Instead of the intended effect, Rackham's little speech seemed to incense the man further. Silver saw him take both hands around Max's throat and drag her up off the floor. "Is that what you thought? You could fuck us out of our money and then hide behind Eleanor? You think I'd really let that happen?"

Silver paused. Eleanor. Guthrie? Had the woman he'd seen Max with the night before really been Nassau's infamous Princess of thieves? Silver pushed the thought away for another time. Vane's accusation sounded personal, and personal conflict hails for unpredictable reactions.

On top of an already unpredictable Charles Vane, Silver knew his window for making any kind of move to protect Max was quickly closing. Charles' enraged tirade continued but Silver froze, seeing Max clearly signalling him to leave her be.

" _Maldita, señora,"_ He huffed under his breath. This woman must be crazy. Though, Silver supposed, she had everything to lose now, if Vane reneged on their deal.

So caught up in his sudden and unexpected concern, and admiration, Silver failed to notice that he, in fact, had been noticed. He cursed himself for losing track of the room, as he was barely able to avoid losing an eye. Jack Rackham's blade cut a thin line against his cheek and he launched himself away from the hole, dropping the sword as he raced out the back door and out onto the streets of Nassau.

Silver did not spare a thought for those behind him and did not stop running until his feet hit soft sand, and then beat against solid wood. Evidently his mind had taken him on the path to the only other place in Nassau he knew - the dock. He could see the Walrus anchored in the harbour, sparse lanterns flickering on deck.

He knew he had to leave, had to hide. It was barely afternoon, and crews were working up and down the beach. Even if the search for him was being kept secret, it wouldn't take long for word to reach Captain Flint that his cook was hanging out by the docks.

Instead of doing that, leaving, hiding, he felt his body move almost of its own accord, walking to the end of the old pier and sitting with his legs swinging over the edge. Silver now had a chance to ask himself what the fuck he thought he was doing.

He'd been in many a sticky situation before, but something about being John Silver made it different. As Vazquez he would have been eight steps ahead in the game, quicker than any of them; Max, Vane, Rackham, even Flint. But as Silver he felt like all the pieces were slipping out of his control.

When he was dying, he didn't question his motives. Retribution seems easier when you won't be alive to see the consequences. When he had survived, he took stock of his feelings, and surmised that all he wanted was to be a casual observer, a fly on the wall to whatever chaos his actions would cause.

But now? He couldn't tell what he wanted anymore. The only path that seemed available to him was to hope that Vane and Rackham would show up for the exchange that evening, hope that it would actually go smoothly, and hope that once he'd spirited away this poor woman from her life and her home to Port Royal, they'd actually know what do with the fruits of all their labour.

Not a single part of that future appealed to John Silver in the slightest. Silver had no idea when this transformation had occurred within him. For Spain, as Vazquez, he had adopted many personas, played many parts, taken numerous roles, but it was always just an act, easily discarded when no longer useful.

Silver supposed that perhaps there was something about dying, that made this one stick. That didn't feel like all though. There was something in the air in Nassau. Something about the pirates that had him stuck. John Silver was not so easily rid of.

Silver pulled the bound leather parcel from his pocket and held it before him. He wanted to throw the offending page into the sea. But lives depended on it now. Max needed to sell it to Vane, or he would surely take retribution out on her. Flint needed it to secure his captaincy in the face of this mutiny, lest he be revealed as a liar and a murderer. The crew of the Walrus surely would drink and fuck themselves out of any money they had in premature celebration of the prize they'd been falsely promised.

Silver remembered the look in Captain Flint's eye as he stared him down on the deck of the Walrus. He had not seemed concerned about any of those things. It was as if, knowing that the page was almost in his grasp, he had found calm. There was an unshakable certainty and confidence in Flint had made Sliver almost want him to succeed, in getting the page, in scoring the gold, all of it. That thought concerned Silver all the more.

How on earth was he going to work his way out of this one.


	8. The Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we broke 15k people ✌✌✌✌✌

Hours later, just before nightfall, John Silver made his way down to the wrecks. As when he had landed that morning, he was careful to avoid suspicion, and on the alert for pursuers. He'd not seen or spoken to Max, or anyone really, since he'd fled the brothel, and had no way of knowing whether anyone would even meet him there.

Still, Silver was a patient man, he had nowhere else to be, and he had a feeling that even as unhinged as Captain Vane had seemed, logic and curiosity would win out to the benefit of their transaction.

Silver found himself a position from which to observe the comings and goings of the jagged cliffs, twisted paths and hidden grottos providing the perfect locale for clandestine undertakings. In the daylight the place felt as dangerous and formidable as any home for the forsaken tended to.

Not much actually transpired as he waited, mostly just the bustling of the normal inhabitants, though he did notice as a pair of pirates picked their way through the maze, nervous and vigilant, and Silver recognised the tension they carried. Even among pirates, it seemed, some dirty deeds were best done away from prying eyes.

As night fell, there was an eerie ambiance that crept into the place, as if the resident outcasts would fade away into the dark and be relieved of their position by new, more unearthly occupants. Silver brushed the thought aside and spied torches approaching, Vane and Rackham, alone.

Silver followed them at a careful distance as they wound their way around encampments and rubble, and they came to a stop in an unremarkable clearing, a small, natural valley of rock.

Over a ridge, Silver insinuated himself into a circle of vagabonds, keeping warm by a fire. Silver held out before him several if his Spanish coins, shining gold in the firelight. The men fell silent around him.

"I'm in need of some assistance." He looked around into wide, hungry eyes. "I was wondering if one of you good men might be able to help me."

"All you would have to do, is wander over that hill, and ask a man for my pearls." He saw suspicion, and fear, but he knew that for at least one man here, his hunger would be stronger.

He smiled, almost kindly, as an old man in rags rose and approached him, all eyes in the circle glued to his movement. "Very well then."

Silver tried to ignore the gnawing in his stomach as he led the man to a path over the ridge and into the clearing, parting with him to take a vantage from which to observe the proceedings. The feeling only grew stronger at the sound of Captain Vane.

"I know you can hear me! You want your money you show your fucking face! That's the only way this gets done." Vane's declaration echoed off the stone walls.

Silver stood still as the stone around him, even as Vane plunged a knife deep into the belly of his unfortunate agent.

Vane called out to him again, completely unaffected by his deed, "Now come out and face me, or these pearls go back where they belong!"

Silver scowled bitterly, and silent as the grave, climbed back over to the group by the fire. Each of them had heard the warning, and the aftermath. Silver did not erase the scorn from his face as held out his hand once again, double his previous offer of coins sitting heavy in his palm. "Someone else?"

For a moment no one stirred. Then another ragged old man lurched forward, the man next to him even reached for his arm, as if to stop him. Silver quashed the guilt in his belly and led the man on the same path as the last.

After his foolish oversight earlier at the brothel, Silver was acutely aware of his surroundings as he watched his new envoy approach the dangerous man below. Even so, he was only barely able to hear the movement on the ridge behind him in time to duck just out of the way of a well-aimed shot, from none other than Billy Bones.

" _Mierda_." He took off. No thought could be spared to lament the interruption. Billy raced after him, and Silver could be sure Vane and Rackham would be following, he surmised that Flint, too, was probably out there somewhere in the still-eerie darkness. While Silver was thankful the terrain made for a gruelling pursuit, he felt sure he would break a leg in his haste if he did not evade the men soon.

Opportunity came as he rounded a corner and he was able to hide himself in the shadow of a fallen stone, seconds before the bosun barrelled after him. Silver held his breath for what felt like an age as Billy paused for a moment before starting up what he thought was the most likely path of pursuit.

Silver waited a moment before moving, in case he turned back, or Vane and Rackham were close behind him. He spotted another fire in the distance, and quietly picked his way over to it. More dejected men sat around it, but none of them familiar, and Silver sat himself among them as if he belonged and pulled a worn shawl over his, relatively, unsullied clothes.

Here, he took stock of his situation. If Billy and Flint had found him, it meant that Max had told them where he'd be. He found that he wasn't angered by her betrayal, but now more concerned for her welfare. There was now little he could do to spare her from the repercussions of their spoiled deal, regardless of who ended up with the page.

That damned page! Silver pulled it out before him, unwrapping it and looking over it in the firelight. He traced the words and diagrams, some even in his own hand, his print only slightly messy from his fever. Each mark felt burnt into his brain. Silver eyed the fire thoughtfully.

When Silver had taken the page from the cook, his new namesake, he had simply wanted to keep control of the narrative. When he had bargained for it with Max, he simply wanted an uncomplicated solution to a tricky situation, a laughable thought now.

Perhaps he should have burnt the that first night on the island, confessed everything to Captain Flint, including his identity, and offered to stand by as a guide in his quest. Perhaps that thought was also laughable, but Silver couldn't help but feel wistful picturing it.

Regardless of what could have been, Silver needed a solution now. He could see that the best way forward for his survival meant the destruction of the schedule, though he would still be at the mercy of several ruthless pirates, even if his life held value to them. With that in mind, Silver needed to decide which of these fearsome pirates he would throw himself into the mercy of.

Both seemed equally violent and dangerous; Captain Flint had beat a man to death before his very eyes, a cold-blooded murder committed as justice for the very crime Silver himself had committed. Captain Vane had brutalised Max and had killed a desperate and vulnerable old man with barely a passing thought.

Silver hadn't even truly met either man, just observed each of them at a distance, but something drew him to Flint. There was something of a fire in the way he'd spoken about _L'Urca de Lima_ , the gold, and a cunning in the way he'd let everything play out that had intrigued Silver. All he felt towards the Ranger's captain was antipathy, distaste.

Silver held the page into the flame as he contemplated the last of his decisions. When he was found by Flint, he would have to decide what explanation to give the man, he would have to decide what to offer him. A cook, a thief and a scoundrel, interested only in his own fortune? Or a Spaniard, a spy and a traitor, seeking retribution for wrongs committed to him by his own country? Silver could see which of his options would appear more threatening.

With the page nothing but ashes, Silver rose from the circle and stepped away from the light, his eyes slowly growing re-accustomed to the dark. In his periphery, he could barely make out some obscured figure in the rocks and he hoped more than recognised that it was the figure of Captain Flint.

So, he wandered off adjacent to this figure, looking purposeful and guarded but un-obscured, into the path of almost certain death, and possible riches and glory. What a night.

Flint came out of the shadows like a man possessed, he grabbed Silver and pinned him up against the rock face by the collar of his jacket, eyes wild, and voice scarcely more than a growl, "Where's the page."

"You can't have it." Flint put a knife to his throat at the denial, and Silver spoke quickly. "Not at the moment. And, please, we should go."

Billy appeared at Flint's side, "Where have you hidden it?"

Silver took measure of the men before him. Only deciding on his path in that very moment. "You're looking at it."

Flint shoved him harder against the stone. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He spat the words, livid, and desperate.

"Well, I couldn't be certain I would escape both the madman and you," Silver tried not to think too hard on his implication that Flint himself was not also a madman, nonetheless, "So, I took drastic measures for the sake of my survival."

Daring to move, Silver tapped a finger to his forehead. "Your schedule is up here." The only element of his story that wasn't a lie. Silver's face pulled into a quick, almost involuntary smirk, which was no help in pacifying Flint.

Silver did his best to remain silent as he was manhandled out of the wrecks, where they met up with Mr. Gates, and the four of them made their way back into Nassau town. Flint was also silent, in rage, as Billy explained the situation to the quartermaster.

The three pirates corralled Silver into the tavern, just across from the brothel. Mr. Gates nudged him forward towards the woman waiting at the bar. "Meet our thief."

He was surprised at their candour. It would hardly do for the Walrus crew to catch wind of the deception after all this. Silver swallowed around a lump in his throat at the look of who awaited him. Definitely the girl he'd seen the night before, with Max. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her just showed disdain and anger.

"Why is he still alive?" Was all she said, which Silver decided was a fair assessment of the situation. Mr. Gates offered her a non-explanation, but somewhat appeased, she gave them leave to head upstairs.

It was put in no uncertain terms what would happen to Silver, should he attempt to give the men the slip overnight. Though, when Flint and Mr Gates each disappeared to take care of other business for the night, Silver knew that if he wanted to, then it would have been easy to escape. And perhaps, if he'd been another man, he would have.

Instead, John Silver simply took the time to rest, impressed that somehow, he'd managed to score a real bed for two nights in a row for what felt like the first time in months.

When Silver awoke, he was alone in the room. It can’t have been late, the street outside was fairly quiet, and the air from the open window was still almost cool. He popped his head out the window to see that the quartermaster had at some point relieved Billy of his watch. He scowled at the sight of the thief.

He gave a sorry smile in return. “I don’t mean to bother you, but could I trouble someone for a change of clothes? I’ve been in these same old rags since I got on the Walrus.” It hadn’t been such an issue the night before, but after his dip in the harbour, and a couple of exciting chases, he was now quite uncomfortable.

The quartermaster narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but, apparently downwind of the man, believed him earnest in his request. He nodded, and signalled to a girl who had just stepped out of an adjacent room, who had apparently been cleaning, and spoke with her quietly.

A few minutes later the girl returned with a bundle of clothes under one arm and a half-filled basin and some rags in the other. "Alright," Commanded the quartermaster, "You've got five minutes to clean yourself up and get dressed, and then I'm bringing you down to Mistress Guthrie."

Silver nodded, his expression tense, and took what he was offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can have a little narrative parallel  
> as a treat


	9. Negotiation and Conciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver has some work to do if he's to survive this endeavour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been an absolute bastard of a chapter 😓 far too much dialogue and it just runs on and on and on  
> im so sorry  
> Enjoy? 🤷

To say that sitting in front of Eleanor Guthrie was an intimidating experience would have been a lie, but there was something about her presence that did set Silver on edge. There was a threat there, with Billy and Mr Gates standing by as he wrote out the beginning of the schedule, angry eyes from all three glaring daggers into him.

But Eleanor herself didn't seem threatening so much as very unimpressed, and mostly she just looked bone tired. There were deep circles under her eyes - evidently, she'd had a much less restful night than Silver.

He garnered why after she was called out for a moment, by a man whom Silver remembered had been by her side the night before. The two stepped away from the room and spoke quietly together to avoid Silver eavesdropping, which did little to actually prevent him from overhearing their barely hushed conversation.

"She's gone." The man said, gentler than Silver had expected.

Eleanor's disbelief sharpened her tone, "She's gone? Are you sure?"

The man took her elbow and shot a warning glance back into the room, making Silver wonder whether it was only him they were protecting their privacy from.

Softly, and so quiet Silver could barely hear, as if to soften the blow, he said, "One of the whores helped her past the guards. She said Max had a boat waiting. I went to check, it's no longer there."

Silver could not turn to look without raising suspicion, so he missed the look of grief on her face at the words. The incredulity in her response was all he could discern. "I told her I would protect her. Did she not believe me?"

Silver pondered for a moment. Max had betrayed him, but perhaps she had been betrayed first.

"She chose this. Not me." Eleanor's defensive tone in response to the silence of her companion did much to confirm Silver's suspicion, but he knew it was also barely either of their doing, this whole mess had been his own fault, letting Max get wrapped up in it in the first place.

Eleanor stormed back over and sat down heavily opposite him and levelled him with a steely gaze. "Something wrong?" He said, with an appropriately concerned expression.

"You better be worth it," Was all she said, before the room fell silent but for the scratching of Silver's quill.

After a short while Gates took his leave, with a short word to Billy outside, and was gone for quite a while. Silver was stretching out the transcription and wondered if he was being a little too obvious about it every time he would pause and put on a thoughtful expression before continuing.

Eventually Gates returned, and he brought with him Captain Flint. Silver toned down him performance a little, not wanting to be caught out by those sharp eyes. After he'd scribed as much as he was willing, he passed the paper over to Gates who parsed it for a moment before handing it on to Flint.

Without lifting his eyes from the page, he spoke, surprisingly free from anger, "Where's the rest?"

"Beg pardon?" Silver feigned.

"The _Urca_ has a planned stop to take on water somewhere on the coast of Florida. That's the point where they're most vulnerable to attack." Flint eyes bore into his as he gestured with the paper. "This describes a course that end miles short of the coast. Where's the rest of the course?"

Silver bit down a laugh at the expectation. With a sly smile at the captain, he replied, "Well, I can't exactly write that down, can I?"

"Why not?" Billy interjected from behind him, and he barely suppressed an eye-roll as he turned to respond.

"Well, you all seem rather angry with me. Especially you." He met Eleanor's eyes and she glared, confirming his statement. To Flint, he said, "And if I were to write it all down, what's to stop you from killing me right here?"

The others in the room looked around at each other as if it actually had not occurred to them that he would notice his position. He wasn't sure whether to be insulted on behalf of his own intellect, or disappointed in theirs.

Billy's next interruption really tested Silver's strength not to roll his eyes. "I say we get Joji in here. He'll have it out of him in 10 minutes."

"Torture won't help you." Silver started, careful not to betray that he knew from experience. He would have to find a way out of that, it would be far too suspicious for some random cook to withstand as much as he could.

"You haven't seen Joji work."

Silver forced a nervous smile onto his face as he made his excuses, "No, I mean I have an exceptionally low tolerance for pain. I'd say anything to make it stop." He turned away from Billy and back to Eleanor and Flint.

"But there may be a more mutually beneficial solution to all of this," He said, going for beseeching. "What if I were to remain with your crew?"

His suggestion was met with silent, incredulous stares. "It makes sense. I forgo payment for the schedule in exchange for my share of the prize. You proceed with your plan, and when the time comes for me to reveal the last piece, I will be right by your side." Again, Flint's eyes bore into him, and Silver met his gaze.

Silver gave a small, nonchalant shrug. "If what I tell you is in anyway incorrect, well, you can do with me what you will."

Flint stepped up to the desk, arms braced in front of him, and lent menacingly towards Silver. "And when the _Urca's_ ours, what's to stop me from killing you anyway?" Silver could hear the amusement in his tone, and almost see it in his face.

"Well that's a few weeks from now, isn't it?" He felt a smile on his face, and hoped it came across as nervous rather than teasing. "We might be friends by then."

He heard Billy scoff, and Gates huff out a laugh, but his eyes stayed on Flint. The man's face pulled into a smirk, more a sneer than a smile, and Silver felt something twisting in his gut. Dread?

For a moment he felt pinned under that gaze, but the captain looked away to address Eleanor, "Good enough for you?"

She, no more charmed with him than before he had opened his mouth, simply replied, "I guess it will have to be."

Billy was apparently less than impressed with the arrangement. "Wait, we're moving ahead?" Disbelief coloured his voice, but Flint continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"Mr Gates and I will begin out search for a consort. This is not a task we'll be able to complete without the assistance of another ship." Eleanor moved to sit at the desk, taking back the writing implements from Silver, without so much as a glance at him.

Billy was not so easily placated. "Captain, can we just discuss this?"

Gates quickly interceded, "Join me outside, Billy." He walked past him with a warning look on his face, and they departed, leaving Silver with Flint, Eleanor, and her aide.

Flint began to list out inventory that would be necessary for the journey, Eleanor inscribing his requests. Silver could feel the tension in the air as Eleanor steadfastly ignored the concerned stare of her advisor, promising Flint all that he required.

'In for a penny,' Silver caught himself thinking as she swept out of the room. Such a distinctly English idiom that he wondered where it had come from, but he could it written in Eleanor's features that she would not be swayed on this. She'd already given up too much.

Flint watched after her for a moment, as if lost in thought, before turning to Silver with a frown. "Come on," and Silver only barely had time to grab his jacket before Flint was also weeping out. Silver spared a brief, apologetic smile for the man left behind, who hadn't yet followed Eleanor like Silver sensed he wanted to.

Downstairs, outside the tavern, Silver was handed over to a profoundly unimpressed bosun, a contention Silver was well aware he would need to remedy if he were to find any goodwill amongst the Walrus crew.

Billy walked him down to the beach, where the Walrus crew had set up under small sea of tents and marquees.

"Randall," he called out to the man, who was sitting and peeling potatoes with a blunt knife. "Mr. Silver here has lost a wager to me. Owes me the rest of the day helping you peel."

Randall raised his steady focus to Billy. "Not supposed to wager on the ship," he warned.

"I know, but it was made over an ale at Guthrie's. It's all in good order." He dropped a heavy hand onto Silver's shoulder and gave a vaguely threatening squeeze, accompanied by a phony grin in his direction. "Would you do me a favour and keep an eye on him? Give me a yell if he tries to wander off."

Randall nodded sagely, with his eyes fixed on Silver. As Silver was nudged over toward his new workstation, the man let out a long, loud, squawking cry and Silver eyed him with concern.

"That's what I'll do if he should wander." He said, once he'd finished and Billy gave him a surprised, almost impressed look before heading out.

Silver settled on the ground by the odd man, picking up his own dreadfully blunt knife. "I can't help but notice that you don't seem to like me very much." He observed, making no move to start his task. "Do you mind if I ask why?"

Affixing him with an intense stare, Randall simply stated, "I can cook."

Silver smiled at him easily, "I see. You're upset because they gave me your job." He made an effort to appear earnest and friendly, for if they crew liked Randall, Silver would do well by having Randall like him. And besides, there was an odd charm to the man that Silver felt he might come to enjoy.

"In my own defence, I'm still trying to figure out how this whole place works myself. I mean, I came aboard the ship two days ago and I hear Mr. Singleton making what sounds to me to be a lot of sense." Silver dropped out the hook cautiously, though he maintained his cheery tone. "Then less than a day later, he's dead, Flint remains, and everyone seems to have forgotten that any of it ever happened."

Randall's knife scraped audibly against the potato in his grip and he froze. Silver suppressed a grin. "What?" he said instead, playing up this suspicion. "Do you know of people who still harbour some anger towards the captain?"

Randall shifted uncomfortably at his question. "Not supposed to talk about that."

"Well that's a shame. If you knew someone like that, I'd be very curious as to what they had to say." Silver felt a small tug of guilt at the manipulation, but if this helped him ingratiate himself with Billy, or even just Randall himself, he thought it would be worth it.

"He likes to play dice." Randall said, and Silver furrowed his brows, hoping that wasn't the only clue he would receive. Randall's gaze flicked behind them, where a pair of men sat with an overturned bucket between them, rolling dice amicably.

"Ah." Silver watched as one of them got up and went after a man in a bright burgundy waistcoat, and they had and animated conversation by the longboats. "Him?"

Randall said nothing in answer, just returned to peeling his potatoes. Silver assumed from his assistance that he would not react as he had promised should Silver slip off to make a new friend.

As the men spoke by the boat, Silver took a seat on an empty stool by the bucket. On it were two dark dice. Silver rolled them around in his hands absently and noted the discrepancy in their movement. Weighted. He huffed out a small laugh, so not all things about pirates were unpredictable.

The man returned and dropped himself into the stool he had vacated, seeming not to have noticed his partner had been quietly replaced. Silver dropped his hand heavily onto the bucket, the knock of the dice in his grasp against the wood catching the man's attention.

"I've been talking with our friend Randall about my suspicions about our captain.” Silver smiled cheerily and took in the man's considering expression. He seemed curious more than threatened, which was promising. “He seems to think we might have that in common."

Leaving the dice on the bucket, he extended his arm out between them. "I'm John Silver. I'm the new cook." Possibly a little disarmed by his friendliness, the man before him took his hand cautiously.

"Turk." The man responded gruffly, before glancing off into the tent. Silver did not follow the look, but he thought this Turk must have exchanged some silent affirmation with Randall, as he seemed to visibly relax before him.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Turk.” Silver threw him another easy smile as he began to open up.

It was incredibly difficult for Silver to suspend disbelief at the tale being woven in front of him. But even as he listened, quietly mystified, he found himself pondering the sheer fairy tale quality a man like Flint must exude to invoke such an image.

Turk was so steadfast in his conviction, and Silver made sure as though to hang on every word, despite his inner incredulity. As mystic as Flint appeared at times, casting spells on with crew with his tales of strength and riches, he was just a man. Definitely alive, and possibly even less "undead" than Silver himself.

The allusion to a woman pulling his strings though, witch or no, tugged at Silver's curiosity. He had known enough men to work as agents of their wiser and more capable wives, lovers, mothers, sisters.

Silver had seen too much of Flint's fervour and resolve for himself to believe that was all there was to the man, but elements of it rang truer than mere fancy. Even fairy tales were often rooted in some hidden truth. He kept his musings to himself and made a show of how rapt he was in Turk's story. It wasn't even the craziest story he'd ever been told, and he had known men with far more power, and supposedly wisdom, fall prey to such tales of fancy.

Turk was distracted from Silver's attention by his friend returning to the beach, though they did not make a move to converse again. Silver decided he'd heard what he needed to and should probably do at least a little of his job before the day was out.

However, when he returned to Randall in the tent, the other man was already on the way out, taking Silver's place opposite Turk. The two sat and talked for a moment before the other man, presumably a third conspirator, approached them looking apologetic.

Silver could not hear their conversation over the bustle on the beach and did not want to give his position away by attempting to inch closer, so he just watched surreptitiously, as he even actually peeled a couple of potatoes.

The three men made off inland, after a while, and Silver set aside his knife and half-peeled vegetable to tail them carefully. They moved slowly, and seemed wary, looking around them as if they sensed Silver following them. Silver, confident he would not lose the trail at their slow pace, broke off from his pursuit at the sight of Billy and moved to lean casually against the awning of the building Billy was passing through.

Billy, upon spotting him, was less than impressed. "What the hell are you doing here? Where's Randall?"

"Follow me," Silver supplied, and was gratified to see the bosun heed his request, whatever scepticism he harboured. He led Billy down a small alley to head off his quarry. With perfect timing, Randall and his companions shuffled into view.

Silver pointed them out to Billy, "There. The short-haired gentleman who goes by Mr. Turk, Randall and the man in black."

Billy shrugged dramatically, and Silver cursed the man's lack of intuition. He explained impatiently, "They are what's left of your mutiny."

"How do you know?" Silver's Silver bit down a snarky response about having eyes in his head but didn't bother hiding his eye-roll.

Silver stepped towards the burly man before him, fighting to keep his tone casual and conversational, rather than pointed. "Because I had a long conversation with Mr. Turk about it this afternoon. His resentment of the captain runs very, very deep. And he's convinced Flint lied about Singleton. When I told him I was of a like mind, he happily opened up."

The smile Silver gave Billy was only a little smug as the man finally acknowledged Silver's observations. He still didn't seem to grasp Silver's intentions though, with another inane question thrown at him, "And now you're telling me, why?"

"I want to live. Earning your trust seemed like a good start towards that end." Even if Silver did think him a bit of a buffoon. Silver moved away from the bosun to lean against the mouth of the alley. "Now, would you like to know what Mr. Turk has shared with me about our beloved captain?"

Billy's turn to return Silver's question with a smug smirk. "Turk thinks Flint is undead, walks the earth without a soul. He believes there's a witch who lived deep inside the island who controls his every move."

Silver frowned at Billy's exposition, though he refused to feel contrite. "More or less, yes."

"Fucking numbskull's been spreading those tales for years. Randall is... Randall. But Morley..." Billy mused aloud, processing his observations. "Morley, I had no idea about."

Silver took in the wariness on the bosun's face threw him a line. "He's got no one left but the misfits. How dangerous can he be?" Billy did not meet his gaze, but instead looked out after the three dissidents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot how much of a himbo Billy is in the beginning 😂😂- he really gets the short end of the exposition stick


	10. Captain Flint and the Maria Aleyne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver has a glimpse of the past, and a taste of his future on the Walrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays everyone?   
> sorry it's taken a while! i've been incredibly distracted binge watching miss fisher's murder mysteries (highly recommend)   
> hopefully this will tide you over - i'm hoping to have a little more momentum now there's a bit more action on the horizon, but who can say?

Silver spent the rest of the afternoon with Randall in the food tent, finally completing the job he'd had actually been tasked with. Once all the vegetables had been prepared, they needed to be ferried aboard the Walrus.

Purely by coincidence, apparently, the long boat to take them across the harbour that evening also carried Billy, Morley, as well as half a dozen other Walrus men, presumably to relieve the watch already on board. Silver ignored the growing tension in favour of watching the sunset dancing across the harbour as they made their approach.

Once the fresh supplies and men had been taken aboard, and the men of the previous watch rowed off back to shore, Silver and Randall left to the lower deck to finish preparing the meal for those staying aboard.

Upon arrival in the galley Randall was very happy to be greeted by the ship's cat, Betsy, Silver was bemused to notice. Silver observed and assisted as Randall worked over the worn iron stove. With provisions like fresh fish, salted pork and other preserved meats not to be spent so close to shore and amongst so few, it was a plain stew - a bit tasteless, and quite stodgy, barely more than a porridge filled out by an assortment of vegetables.

The crew seemed thankful enough for it, and perhaps they were well used to it. The meals Silver had helped prepare aboard Parrish's ship were scarcely any different, save for maybe some added salt and herbs when available. Men wandered about above and below deck, either keeping watch or preparing the ship for their next voyage, and all were still in quite high spirits from the promise of their great prize.

Eventually Billy came down from his work on deck, and he absentmindedly exchanged a bowl of the stew for a bundle of cloth and rope with Silver.

"Hang it anywhere, just try not to be in anyone's way." Silver eyed him curiously as he explained. The bosun's mind seemed thoroughly somewhere else, even as he sat and are his eyes kept flicking up, as if trying to see through onto the wooden deck above.

Silver frowned in thought. Leading Billy to the remaining mutineers on the crew had simply meant to put Silver into his good graces, not throw the man's own loyalties into question. Silver was left to wonder whether Billy's involvement in the business with Singleton was as voluntary as he had assumed.

Silver set aside the hammock in an empty corner of the galley and inconspicuously followed Billy out. The crewmen keeping watch had their focus turned outward, off the ship, and so Silver easily evaded their observation as he crossed the deck. At the helm, Morely was approached by the bosun, both of them looking guarded and wary of each other.

Silver could not quite make out what the men said to each other, but there were crates and barrels scattered across the deck in haphazard piles large enough to provide cover, just barely in earshot. After a brief, agitated back and forth the tension seemed to release from Billy and Morely's conversation, and the two sat down together in a much more worrisome tableau.

In the face of this, Silver knew he would have to settle in for a longer stake out. He plucked an apple from the barrel he was crouched behind and sat as comfortably as he could there, taking in the conversation as it drifted across deck, just loudly enough for him to catch.

"Who's Mrs. Barlow?" Was the first phrase Silver heard clearly, spoken by the bosun. His companion had lit up a pipe, he had seemingly come to the same conclusion as Silver, that they would be in this for the long haul.

"Number of years back," He started, "before you crewed up with us, Flint had a us hunting a merchant ship, the _Maria Aleyne_." Silver felt a flicker of recognition at the name but had no time to dwell on it as Morely forged on.

"Sephardic trade - gold, pearls, jewels. 'More than we'd ever know what to do with,' He said. But that's Flint's gift, isn't it? Always knows just what to say to push us harder, further, make us all pull together for the cause." Silver could see in his mind's eye the furrow in Billy's brow he knew would have appeared at the statement. Could hardly keep the matching expression off his own face.

Still, Morely continued, "We tracked that bitch for months without refitting or careening 'till finally we spotted her. We lost good men taking her for a haul nowhere near what Flint had promised."

Still, Billy said nothing. "When I was exploring the hold I chanced upon a cabin and that when I heard it. 'Twas a man and a woman begging for their lives. 'Spare us, and our fortune's yours.' For a moment, I thought all our shares were gonna be worth a whole lot more."

Recollection tugged at Silver's consciousness, and his brows knit together, straining to remember. "But that's when the screams began. And when I watched the murderer leave, I saw him plain."

Then, Silver knew the _Maria Aleyne_. He knew who had been aboard that ship, who had been killed aboard that ship. But he only realised now he'd never heard who had been responsible.

Finally, Billy spoke up, "Did you tell anyone?"

"Gates," Morely replied, with a heavy pause, and Silver could sense the knowing look accompanying it. "He was unmoved, to say the least. 'Just one rich bastard less in the world,' he said. At the time, I'll admit, I took his point."

Silver heard one of them shift slightly and had to strain to hear the rest, after Morely's drop in volume. "But days later we come ashore. I see a lady waiting for Flint. The rest of the crew thought she's just some fancy bit of Puritan tail. But when Flint reaches her, two words escape his lips. 'They're dead.' Hunting the _Maria Aleyne_ was never about the money. It was an execution."

"All those men we lost taking her, they died so Flint could settle some personal vendetta _for her_. You watch. Good men will die for some hidden agenda. The Barlow woman's agenda." This was Turk's witch, then. "Mark my words, Billy. It's all happening again."

Silver risked a peak around the barrel to see Billy's face. There was horror, but also a calm understanding.

"Fuck," was all Silver heard the bosun respond.

With this damning enough testimony, Silver felt no need to stay for the story's conclusion. So, silent as the grave, he slunk back below deck to find Randall already asleep. Silver hung up his hammock not far from his workmate, and tried to settle in.

It was not the sway of the waves or the creak of the hull, but the story churning around in his head that kept him from sleep. Silver considered whether he had perhaps greatly underestimated the danger of Flint. He also considered whether this had been exactly what he desired.

Silver reckoned that perhaps this Captain Flint, ruthless murderer and commander of men, was qualified like no other for the task at hand. If this man could motivate his crew to forgive and forget such an event without a whiff of the prize they were promised, Silver was almost eager to see what Captain Flint could achieve with this very real prize before them.

He'd already seen part of it, the death of Singleton still vivid in his mind's eye, but there was a long way to go before the _Urca_ would be in their grasp.

Flint's connection to the _Maria Aleyne_ was fascinating, though. The death of the Lord Proprietor of the Bahamas at the hands pirates years ago had been merely idle gossip all those years ago in the Spanish court. Any question of why a pirate and a woman would want Alfred Hamilton murdered would have been _English_ gossip at that.

Silver mused that perhaps, back then, one of his old contacts would have known more to the story, had he felt the urge to inquire further. He wondered if they would still.

This line of thought drew from him a wistful sigh, unbidden and unwelcome. After coming so far, it would do no good for Silver to dwell on what he had lost.

Thankfully, he was disturbed from his introspection by the arrival of a boisterous boatload of drunken pirates. Those onboard, Silver included, had not expected anymore arrivals for the night, and everyone shuffled on deck in confusion.

There they saw a dozen pirates, all stood there looking equal parts ecstatic and shell-shocked. Mr. Logan stepped forward and was the first of them to speak, "You lot are never gonna fuckin' believe what just happened."

His statement was met with further confusion. Logan continued, "Eleanor fucking Guthrie just handed us the bloody Ranger." This time he was met with unanimous scoffing, even a couple of guffaws.

Another stepped out from behind him, Dufresne, a voice of reason amongst the crew. "No, it's true. The woman went mad over some whore on the beach, and now she's embargoed Vane and any man who stands by him, unless they join us, and Flint."

Silver felt his blood run cold, he felt just as slack-jawed as the rest of the crew hearing this news. It had been surreal enough hearing that Gates and Flint had been in discussions with Captain and Quartermaster of the Ranger all day about acting as an escort for the Walrus on the hunt for the _Urca_ , but this? This was insane.

What the fuck had happened on that beach? Had Max been killed? Surely it was her they were talking about. She hadn’t escaped, then. Silver remembered the look on Eleanor's face when she'd just been worried about the girl, and could definitely imagine that this would be the vengeance she would wreak on those to cause Max any harm.

Billy made his presence known, approaching from the bow, "And what did Captain Flint have to say about that?"

Dufresne just shrugged. "Precious little, to be honest. He just warned everyone to behave themselves for the night, before disappearing like he always does. Left Gates to take care of all the defectors."

"Yeah, and Gates told us all to fuck off back to the Walrus to keep out of trouble while he's at it." Logan interjected.

Billy nodded in acknowledgement and his gaze drifted out toward shore, as if he could see the aftermath from here. "Well, sounds like we have our orders, then. It's late, might as well all get to bed and settle this shit out in the morning."

About half the men looked inclined to agree, while the other half seemed disappointed not to continue their celebrations but, in the end, none argued with Billy as all but the watch stumbled down into the hold, Silver among them.

Almost everything had settled on the Walrus when another even rowdier longboat full of men clamoured their way aboard, presumably the last of the crew who lacked the coin or the inclination to find lodgings on shore. Silver didn't rise to greet them this time, and nor did anyone else.

"Randall! Silver! Tell us you've got some grub left. I'm half starved!" And half drowned in rum, by the smell of it.

Silver recognised the voice of Mr Turk and wasn't sure whether to be judgmental at the man's inability to speak quietly, or incredibly impressed at his attempt at a stage-whisper.

Randall tossed in his hammock with a grumble but didn't rise. Silver just laughed and swung down, only a little unsteadily, out of his own. "Alright, alright - but shut up, will you? You'll wake the dead."

His response elicited a chuckle from a few of the other men to arrive with Turk, most of whom Silver recognised by face, if not by name. Several of the men just went straight to their hammocks, but a few followed Silver as he went over and lit the stove to reheat the congealed stew.

Silver listened to their drunken chatter as they mostly ignored him. A lot of the conversation seemed to be just taking the piss out of each other or musing in awe of the eventful evening on the beach. Silver had no illusions toward being accepted or even trusted among these men, but he found himself a little surprised at how comfortable he felt. It was a pleasant experience to be in the presence of such comradery, apparently.

Turk took one of his companions in a playful headlock after a particularly indecent comment and Silver laughed along with the rest of them as he watched them wrestle. A couple of the men tried to shush them as the mock-fight grew rowdier but, unfortunately, they'd already woken several of their slumbering crewmates.

"Shut the fuck up!" Called one.

"Some of us are trying to sleep, you ungrateful wretches." Came another.

The men broke apart, laughing quietly, unapologetically. Silver handed out bowls of stew so the men's hands would be too occupied for more brawling, friendly or not, and set aside the empty pot for cleaning in the morning. Silver stayed up with the men talking, half hoping to hear more about what happened on the beach, and half just amused listening to the others talk.

It was incredibly late by the time they all turned in, after hours spent talking just for the sake of it. No information to extract, no mark to case. Silver was left wondering whether he'd ever quite had a night like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you know there was actually a spanish conquistador named Juan Vazquez in the 16th century? amazing the things wikipedia will tell you when you go looking.... I'm sure i'll find a way to make that relevant somehow 🤔💁


	11. Of Pigs and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Walrus holds another election, and Silver learns some important lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh look, another - posting schedule who?  
> hope we're all staying safe out there ❤

The next day was a flurry of activity as crewmen flitted to and from the Walrus, all sharing their own tale of the night before. Each retelling seemed a little more ridiculous than the last, but new truths could also be garnered from beneath the embellishments.

One such tale told of Eleanor Guthrie tearing a man's balls off with her bare hands, which had been amusing, if not particularly enlightening. Another told of how Mistress Guthrie's favoured whore had run off into the arms of none other than Captain Charles Vane, which didn't seem in the least bit likely, but so many other tales corroborated this that Silver was forced to believe at least some version of this to be the truth.

Billy had been gone most of the morning, surely getting the story straight from the Mr. Gates and the Captain, and when he returned to the Walrus that afternoon with Gates, they both made a much-needed announcement to those aboard. Between the two of them they set straight some of the speculation floating around. Yes, the Ranger and its crew had been pledged to Captain Flint and the hunt for the _Urca_. Yes, Eleanor Guthrie had helped facilitate the power shift. No, no one had been grievously wounded or killed. And lastly, that Mr Gates had been asked to act as Captain on the Ranger for the endeavour.

The last point had been a little shocking to some, but most appeared quite happy for the Quartermaster's promotion, if the smattering of cheers were any indication. Gates' parting words were that they had two days to do with what they wanted, while he sorted out everything with the Ranger, after which a council meeting would be called aboard the Walrus for their own crew matters going forward.

Silver wondered what he would do with himself if there wasn't any work to be done on the Walrus, he couldn't imagine that Captain Flint would appreciate him gallivanting all over Nassau like any other crewman. He hardly wanted to approach the man and check for himself, like some sort of adolescent malcontent under curfew. He vowed to simply stay close to Billy, or perhaps Randall, and hope that would demonstrate his complacency well enough.

In the end, it was easy enough to fill his time; Billy hadn't been exaggerating in regards to the Walrus crew's fondness for Randall, and his effort towards endearing himself to the man, though slow-going, had the dual effect of also endearing him to the crew, somewhat.

Another benefit of spending most of his time around Randall was that, unlike the rest of the crew, he showed no interest in spending most of his time at either the brothel or the tavern. Silver was in no hurry to give either watering hole his patronage, thinking it best to avoid anywhere he might run into Eleanor Guthrie, or anyone else he had recently inconvenienced.

So, most of his time was spent encamped on the beach, cooking bland stew and drinking harsh rum alongside other crew-mates who hadn't the coin for anything else. Silver found himself greatly enjoying the night-time ambiance of the beach, with crewmen telling tales and singing along together in the firelight. It was almost like something out of a storybook, and Silver couldn't help but feel a little swept up in it all.

Soon enough, the time came for all to head back to the Walrus. The men all ferried back on board and all stood crowded on deck, just as they had the day of Singleton's insurrection, and death. Silver lounged against the rail of the quarterdeck, flanked by Logan and a Welshman by the name of Muldoon, as Gates took the floor to address the men, Billy by his side.

Gates' voice was gruff as he began, "First item for the council concerns leadership." His voice carried clearly across the silence on deck.

"As you know, I've been asked to serve as captain of the Ranger when next we set sail. Obviously, that means less time spent with you idiots." His comment drew a friendly laugh from the surrounding men.

He cut in to quieten them before they were derailed. "So, you will need somebody to act as your quartermaster in the meantime. Unless anybody's got any better ideas, I was thinking Billy Bones."

The crew let their ascent known quite uproariously, to which Gates and Billy looked fairly pleased, but Silver felt a touch of unease. He was all too aware of Billy's precarious opinion of the Captain, and the danger this level of sway over the crew would have for both of them, and for their undertaking.

Gates silenced the crowd with a hand and a quieter, "I thought so." He tossed a small object over to the new quartermaster, which jingled and glinted in the sun, metaphorically passing on the reigns.

Billy stepped forward to take the floor, "Next item - careening."

The men groaned unhappily. "Bad start, Billy," one of them called.

Billy continued unaffected by their displeasure. "She's long overdue. If we're gonna win the _Urca_ , the Walrus must be shipshape. That means we tip her, plain and simple. The question is, where do we do the tipping?"

"Wherever there's plenty of rum!" Muldoon called down from beside Silver, to the agreement and amusement of his crew-mates.

Sounding only a little frustrated, Billy answered him, "As always, the ship's account is open. Rum casks and Mr. Simpson's buttered oranges are on their way. And the pigs are being readied for Mr. Silver's spit."

Mr. Silver felt more than a little apprehensive about this particular endeavour. A spit-roast was a far cry from any of the simple cooking he'd been exposed to over the last few months. He hoped it would be easier than it seemed.

"Now, to return to the issue of location-"

Once again was cut off by an insistent crew member, whose name Silver had yet to learn. "What about the fuck tent?"

Apparently thrown off by the question, Billy tried to reign the conversation, "That's probably something we can discuss..."

To no avail, though, as men started a chant of, "Fuck tent! Fuck tent." Much to poor Billy's exasperation. Instead of addressing the distraction directly, Billy ploughed on as if there had been no tangent at all. He passed the floor over to Mr. De Groot, the ship's master, who was looking very grave.

"You may not like what I have to say. But if it remains unsaid, I fear the worst." He spoke morosely, the men on deck silent and still at his words.

"I've inspected the shoreline proposed by the captain for this undertaking and it is simply unsuitable to the task at hand. The anchorage is poor. The incline too steep. I cannot endorse it. The risk for calamity is too high. With the crew's ascent, I ask for time to find a more suitable beach."

"And delay our efforts by how long? Two weeks? A month?" The voice of Captain Flint came in reply, and Silver was startled to realise he had not noticed the man, sitting tucked away on the gun deck, listening silently.

Flint stepped out into the light and addressed the crew in that subtly compelling manner he was prone to. "A clean hull means an extra knot or two in speed, five degrees or more in coming about. It's essential to the job at hand. If we had weeks, we'd surely take them."

He levelled an ambivalent glance at De Groot before continuing, "But we must sail within days if we are to meet the _Urca_. Now, Mr. De Groot's concerns are valid... But they come at a price. Five million dollars in Spanish gold to be exact."

Flint swung his gaze around the crew, his expression a challenge to them all, but he said no more as he ducked back under the deck with a nod to Billy.

Silver had caught the flicker of discomfort that had crossed the new Quartermaster's face as the captain spoke, but none was heard in his voice as he called out to the crew, "All those in favour of the captain's plan to careen here, near the bay?"

Once again drawn in by Captain Flint's spellbinding words, the crew shouted their 'Aye!'s with as much enthusiasm as they had for Billy's appointment.

"Well, it would appear the 'ayes' have it." Billy declared.

"Nay." Silver turned sharply toward the voice of opposition, unsurprised but definitely not unconcerned to see Morley staring boldly down at the Walrus' leadership.

"Mr. Morley’s dissent is noted, along with Mr. De Groot's." There was a tense pause as the statement settled in, and Billy commented, hoping to re-inject some levity, "Alright, let's beach this bitch."

"Yeah, quick question then." The interruption came from the same man as before. "Where are we on the issue of the fuck tent?"

Billy's frustration finally showed through in his response. "This job is gonna happen fast. That means more risk, more danger. Now, you've put a great deal of trust in me to serve in Mr. Gates' absence, and I take that seriously."

His tone turned almost pleading, beseeching, "So, given the potential for distraction and delay at a time that we need to be at our best, perhaps we can all agree to forgo, just this once, a fuck tent."

The men stood in silence for a long beat, before they sent up a unanimous cacophony of objection, which somehow seemed equal parts joking and deathly serious. Mr. Gates landed a heavy consolatory hand on Billy's shoulder with an understanding smirk, encouraging to the poor man as he let out a resigned sigh and conceded defeat.

The crew were then given the rest of the day to prepare the Walrus for the short trip down the coast, loading and unloading necessary and unnecessary cargo. Supplies for the beach were loaded onto a pair of wagons supplied by the Guthrie's and sent off inland. By nightfall, the Walrus crew was fully encamped at the captain's chosen location, with the Walrus anchored in position, ready to be hauled in and tipped at first light.

Curled up atop a thin blanket laid out over the sand as a makeshift bed, Silver contemplated his conundrum. Silver had been apprenticed to the cook on Captain Parrish's ship for a mere 3 months, and in that time he'd scarcely been allowed to do more than chop vegetables or stir a pot, or if he'd been particularly unlucky, descale and gut the occasional fish. Fresh meat was a pretty rare sight in any ship's kitchen, let alone something like a whole pig like Silver was expected to prepare.

Thinking back, he didn't think he'd seen so much as a morsel of roast pork since he'd left Spain, almost a year prior, and he'd not had anything to do with preparing that. Still, he'd grilled game over a fire in his travels, once or twice, and hadn't managed to poison anyone yet, so perhaps there was a chance for success here?

The next morning, Silver's hope wavered at the sight of the carcass dumped in the sand at his feet by a perplexed Randall, once again irate at the new cook for usurping his duties.

"You shouldn't have," Silver sniped. He would have traded this task in a heartbeat if he were able, but he knew he should try not to take out his trepidation on someone who's favour he was very much trying to win.

Setting up the spit itself was a near impossible task alone, and Silver hoped he hadn't looked too foolish in his attempts. Evidently, not foolish enough for anyone to take pity on him and stand in to help, in any case. It's possible that a little bitterness at this scenario was what prompted him to allow several crew-members to hack off serves for themselves when the pig had only barely started to brown, adamant that it was ready to eat.

"Listen here you smart-mouthed fuck." Whatever smug satisfaction he got from his small revenge; the pettiness had come back to bite him.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Silver tried to toe the line between appearing vindictive and a bit simple as he feigned ignorance at the accusations thrown at him by Mr. Muldoon.

"I've got the shits. What part of that don't you understand?" Silver swallowed a snicker at the sight of Flint sauntering up behind the indignant gunner.

"What's going on?" Silver had avoided the ire of Captain Flint for days, but one poorly cooked pig and he was right back under that chilling gaze, damn.

"His rotten pig gave the lot of us the bloody squirts." Again, Silver had to hide a snide grin at the consternation of someone who had quite willfully gotten himself into this mess.

"It's possible it wasn't the pig, you know," Silver bluffed. "Some people have weak constitutions."

Muldoon jerked towards him threateningly but was halted by a stern word from the captain. "Settle down."

Silver watched in horror and a little awe as Flint picked a sliver of pork from a nearby plate and bit into it, only barely hiding his revulsion as he exaggeratedly chewed it. Silver felt his eyebrows raise in amazement at Flint's comment of, "Mmm, delicious."

The last thing he had expected was for the Captain to go along with his charade, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the lengths he'd had to go to, which Silver had the feeling he'd answer for eventually.

Flint continued, "It's likely as not it wasn't the pig. It's just something that's going around. Get back to work."

Only barely convinced, Muldoon parted with a steady glare at Silver, and the cook did slightly regret the harm this event would likely cause to the slow rapport he had been growing with the crew.

The time had also come to decide whether to pass off his behaviour as ignorant or malicious to the captain, and just as he had earlier, he figured the less threatening approach of looking the fool would serve him better.

"Thank you, I'm glad someone here likes-" Silver's line was cut off by Flint violently spitting out his mouthful of pig.

"What the fuck did you do to that?" Flint's face and neck were an angry red and a vein bulged at his temple.

"I cooked it..?" Sliver lied, only barely attempting to tread lightly on the captain's temper.

"You absolutely did not." Silver almost laughed aloud at the reply.

"The men seemed to think it looked done," He supplied, which was not a lie.

"Yes, well they'd eat it raw if left to their own devices." At this, Silver did not repress a wry smile and a small chuckle.

"That's awfully cynical," he accused, and Flint levelled him with an icy stare.

Captain Flint took a moment, possibly considering just throttling the man then and there, and almost definitely ruing the day he'd ever met this apparent simpleton of a cook.

"Go and get another pig," he said after a beat, his tone resigned. "Do exactly as I say."

Silver was certain the captain had more important things to be doing than ensuring his new "cook" didn't appear completely useless in the eyes of his crew. He was also sure that any further show of incompetence or insubordination in this moment would prove disastrous for any future attempts at appeasing Flint, so he hurried to comply.

Flint's instructions, while stern and a little exasperated, were actually quite helpful. He had Silver stack the fire so it was a pile of smouldering embers and coals, rather than just fire and smoke, and Silver could feel the difference in the heat irradiating from it. He listed herbs and spices to be mixed in with a sugary syrup and spread across the flesh of the pig as it cooked.

Silver was quite impressed, both at the knowledge the captain demonstrated, and also the clarity with which he was able to coach him through the process, with a surprising amount of patience.

Once the pig was set up, cooking away, and actually smelling something like how Silver remembered a good roast hog should do, the captain left him to it. Silver watched as he sat before a set of navigational charts, quietly plotting away their course, as he probably should have been doing all the while Silver had wasted his time.

Across the beach, Silver spotted a brief, tense exchange between Billy and Morley, and contemplated whether he and the captain had reached the point where his observations would be well received. He suspected not, but he felt he'd given the young quartermaster quite enough time to sort himself out.

He wandered over to the captain's tent, his hands full with a fresh bowl of spices he was mixing for the glaze. "How exactly does the most feared captain of the high seas learn how to spice and glaze a pig?" He called out by way of greeting.

"What do you care?" Flint responded, barely glancing up from his work.

"Well, I don't really." Silver drew closer to the tent, moving slowly and casually. "It's just that there's something we need to talk about, and I thought a little small talk beforehand might be better than diving right in."

Flint looked up at him suspiciously, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Knowing it would not endear himself any to be the one bringing up this whole business, but also knowing no one else around was paying enough attention to catch the signs of the new quartermaster's faltering loyalty, Silver pushed on.

Stepping in close and dropping his voice, Silver prompted, "What are we going to do about Billy?"

"Beg pardon?" Flint seemed caught off guard by this line of enquiry, solidifying Silver's confidence in needing to broach the subject.

"As much as it pains me to say this as he has been nothing but warm and welcoming to me," Only a small embellishment, "he appears to be straining at the seams. I thought maybe we ought to have-"

"Stop." Flint cut him off, his tone hardened. "There is no we. Billy Bones is a dutiful bosun who commands enormous respect from his crew as well as from myself. I trust him a thousand times more than I would a rodent like yourself."

"Understood." Silver forced himself not to bristle at the words. It didn't matter whether or not the captain trusted his opinion at all, just so long as he began to take notice. "All that being said-"

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

Silver pushed through Flint's exasperation. He set down the bowl and lent over the table toward Flint. "I saw Billy speaking with Mr. Morley late last week. At night. In secret."

"That supposed to mean something to me?" Flint met his gaze.

Silver spoke slowly, toeing the line of condescension, "Well, he lied about the page being blank. I believe it's wearing on him."

"I told you once. I won't tell you again. I trust Billy." It was all Silver could do not to roll his eyes at him.

"Trust me. I'm purely in this for myself and you know this. I've no reason to tell you anything other than the truth. Both our futures depend on this." Silver said his piece, possibly laying on a bit thick his attempt to play into the man's assumptions about his character.

"I haven't decided yet whether you even have a future. But I can tell you this, trying to play me against my own crew will not help your cause." Flint's cold eyes bore into him. "Turn your pig. It's almost done."

He was almost relieved by the dismissal. A frustrating conversation, but hopefully compelling enough for Flint to at least start making his own judgements of Billy's behaviour. Silver told himself again that it mattered little whatever regard the captain paid Silver's advice, so long as it had him paying attention. After all, it would be quite hypocritical to expect any level of trust from the captain given just how deep Silver had buried himself in deceit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all gotta gimme some suggestions as to how i can make this more exciting cause i feel like half the time its just me rambling on 😂


	12. Decisions, Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calamity befalls the Walrus, and Silver gets through to Flint, sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's only been a month 👀👀 writers block has been kicking my ass  
> please enjoy

Silver tried to keep his attention on minding, carving and serving his pig, but he found his thoughts and his gaze kept drifting over to the captain. Flints attention, too, seemed divided. Every few minutes or so his eyes would sweep across the beach, catching on Billy, or Morley, and Silver felt a grim satisfaction at the evidence that his words had the affect he'd been hoping for. 

Every so often Flint's gaze would also wander over to Silver, his expression tense but indecipherable, before diverting back to his work, or one of the other targets of his attention. He was sure Flint was not aware of Silver observing him, after all, he knew better than to be caught gawking, so Silver surmised he was merely mulling over his revelations and motivations.

After several rounds of this supervisory consideration, Silver lifted his eyes to meet Flints. Flint did not startle, or look away, his frown just deepened in irritation, unabashed and remorseless in the face of being caught out in his scrutiny. Silver kept his expression carefully blank, if a little curious, as he gazed back, knitting his eyebrows together in a slight frown, as if in confusion.

It was Silver who broke their gaze, his eye caught by the sight of Logan ushering crewmen out of the way as he escorted a guest across the camp to see the captain; Eleanor Guthrie. When Silver glanced back at Flint he was once more engrossed in his work, though the tense line of his shoulders appeared even stiffer, if possible.

Silver continued his surreptitious observation of the captain's tent and its two occupants as Flint and Eleanor Guthrie sat, spoke and drank together. There had been a change in the air as morning trickled into afternoon. The wind had slowly and subtly swung around and intensified until the Walrus and the palm trees anchoring it creaked ominously. 

Silver thoughts had just begun to drift back to the warnings of the ship's master when a shudder of groaning wood and rope echoed across by the beach, followed by a flurry of men scrambling across the beach, towards and away from the creaking Walrus. 

Almost unconsciously Silver found himself moving, trailing behind Flint as he raced over to the Walrus. The whole scene was a sight to behold. De Groot crying out orders to get away from the ship, scores of palm trees being ripped from the sand, the piercing groans as the ship tipped slowly upright, as if in slow-motion. An ear-splitting cry of pain came from beneath the ship just as Flint reached the men congregated on the beach. 

Silver saw Morley react first, flinging himself back to the ship with a harsh exclamation of, "Randall!" He also saw as Billy tried to go after him but was stopped by Flint, who followed after Morley himself, disappearing under the hull. 

Silver found himself standing beside Eleanor Guthrie as they surveyed everything unfolding before them. Billy and De Groot had corralled the men up to the palms, axes and swords at the ready to unbind the ship from the perilous tension on its mast. Randall was still screaming.

"It's taking too long," Eleanor despaired from beside Silver. A spasmodic clench of his hands reminded Silver that when he had rushed away from carving the pig across the beach, he had not dropped the cleaver. He looked down at it for a moment, a coil of nausea in his belly at the very thought, and took off toward the Walrus.

Once under the hull, Silver stood and stared at the three men below, trapped with them in this moment. Flint, Morley, and between them, Randall. He met Flint's eyes and he wasn't sure what showed there. Did Flint see fear? Suspicion? Awe? He tore his gaze away, dropped the cleaver into the sand and fled.

At a safe distance Silver tripped forward, collapsing into the sand, heart pounding in his chest. He tried pushing away how sickened he felt as Randall's now muffled cries grew ever more desperate. 'Calamity' was what De Groot had warned of, and that is surely what they'd gotten. 

Silver was still looking down at the sand, faced away from the Walrus, when the ship gave a final groan as the tension released and the ship rolled upright in the sand and settled there. For a moment there was silence, nothing but the wind in the sand as every man there held their breath. 

Silver looked over his shoulder in time to see figures stumbling round from behind the rudder, Flint and Randall. _Only_ Flint and Randall. Flint was supporting almost all the other man's weight across his shoulders and both were painted in blood and sand. 

Logan surged forward under Randall's other arm to take some of Randall's weight off the captain and behind them Silver spotted Billy race to catch what ever sorry sight would now be found at the underside of the Walrus. Silver swallowed down a fresh wave of nausea as his gaze found Flint again. 

Despite himself, Silver wondered for a moment whether fate itself was pushing Flint towards success, too many coincidences working in his favour. Silver shook away the ridiculous notion and swallowed down the taste of bile in his throat. Without another look back at the captain, he walked away and back to his probably burning pig. 

The cook paid little as the rest of the crew handled the recovery of the Walrus after their eventful afternoon. He tried hard not to dwell on his own irrational thoughts, he'd never thought of himself as a particularly superstitious man, but recent events seemed to be proving that untrue.

Silver poured his focus into the task of carving the last of the pork into portions for future meals, estimating there was enough left for at least one hearty stew while it was still fresh. He was hacking away at the carcass, debating whether it would be worth keeping for making broth, when the sound of something dropping heavily into the sand beside him startled him from his fixation.

Silver looked up to the sight of Flint, stern and bloody, standing beside him. He cursed himself for not having noticed the captain's approach, and was careful not to look surprised at the sight of him. He made no move to pick up the cleaver.

"Billy and Morley," Flint started, looking away from Silver for a moment before meeting his gaze. "That night on the ship, what were they talking about?"

Silver was silent for a moment, considering. "Well, I didn't hear much, but it sounded like they were talking about a woman. Somebody Barlow."

Silver was careful to keep his tone even, conversational. There was no change in Flint's demeanor but Silver could sense his internal turmoil, like the ticking of a clock behind the steely expression. After a moment Flint turned away and Silver thought perhaps he was looking out to sea until he spotted Billy and Gates sat together, heads bowed in deep conversation.

Flint left without a word and Silver wondered whether he should have said more, or whether that would make his knowledge appear too dangerous. It wouldn't do to cast himself as more of a threat than those he'd meant to reveal, when there was still so little trust between him and anyone else on Nassau.

It was harder to keep his attention on task after the conversation with Flint, its impact disproportionate to its brevity for both parties. High tide swept in and Flint coordinated the un-beaching of the Walrus with seemingly singular focus. Silver kept steady observation of Flint as he worked, as he had following his initial warning to the man, but not once did the captain turn his attention back to him. 

Silver found himself almost missing Randall's company as he alone ferried all the cooking supplies back into the kitchen tent. He'd spotted the man earlier in a tent with the ship's doctor, Howell, probably being fed a boat-load of laudanum for a pain that would now probably never fully leave him. Betsy, the ships cat, could just barely be seen curled up under the foot of his cot. 

As night fell Silver set about making his stew, having decided that a bunch of pirates would be happy enough picking out the extra bones of what remained of the roasted pig for that little bit of extra meat and flavour. And, as he received a surprisingly thankful and apologetic look from Muldoon when the crewman came back for a second helping, he was left feeling rather vindicated. 

That is, until news of the Andromache's departure flooded the beach, and Silver found himself bundled into a cart alongside Randall and Flint headed back for Nassau town. Silver forced himself to remain silent throughout the journey, and as he and the captain hauled Randall's half-conscious self into Eleanor Guthrie's tavern, though his mind was full of questions. 

After they'd deposited Randall onto an only barely large enough sofa in Eleanor's office, Silver turned to Flint to voice some of his curiosity. Only, before he could get out a word he felt cool metal against his wrist and heard the   
telltale click of a shackle locking into place. 

"Now, Captain. I thought we were getting somewhere." With a frown, Silver voiced his exasperation. "This is hardly necessary."

Flint barely spared him a glance as he swept out of the room, leaving Silver to quietly fume as he took a seat beside the sofa, where Randall had begun to snore faintly. After a moment Silver sighed to himself, presuming there would be no one coming back for him for a while, drew a pin from his purse and made quick work of the cuff binding him to his sleeping comrade. 

Cursing the carelessness of English pirates, Silver moved quietly across the room and over to the desk. He'd sat there, more than a week ago now, after the first time he'd forced himself not to escape the custody of his new friends, despite the opportunity they'd left for him to do so. 

The desk was kept neat, and held nothing particularly scandalous for Silver to peruse, just a series of warehouse inventories and shipping schedules, pirate and merchant vessel alike. There was a time such intelligence may have been of interest to a man such him, the beating heart of the pirate nuisance in the Bahamas. But, he was no longer that man and only one ship in these waters he spared any thought for.

With another sigh, Silver wandered back over to Randall and made himself comfortable on the floor beside the sofa for the night ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a bit short! I'm just tryina keep the flow going  
> hmu on tumblr and bully me into writing more if ya feel like  
> https://thegrimmgrimm.tumblr.com/ ✌✌


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